sypnosis: tasked by Alice to keep watch over Mondstadt in person, you decide to entertain yourself by taking on different roles within the city—changing your occupation as you please. Yet to the citizens of Mondstadt, nothing ever changes. In their minds, you have always been exactly who you are when they see you.
Only Varka seems to notice the inconsistency.
contains: 4.1k wc, female reader, fluff, reader is lowk a troll, varka being silly, varka is also indicated to be taller and bigger than reader (hv you seen his hand vs lohen oml..), kinda slow burn?
Varka was certain he had never been wrong about a person before—until he met you.
The Grandmaster had stopped by the cathedral one afternoon in search of Barbara for some light healing after a morning of training recruits. The injuries on his hands were nothing serious, just the usual wear from constant sparring, but he had learned long ago that ignoring small things often led to larger problems later on. Mondstadt was peaceful, but the knigths were never idle, and neither was he.
What he hadn't expected was to be greeted by an unfamiliar woman.
You were standing among the nuns near the altar, speaking with them as though you were part of the daily rhythm of the cathedral. There was nothing unusual about your posture or your presence, nothing that suggested that you didn't belong, and yet the moment Varka saw you, something in him faltered because he was certain he had never seen you before in his life.
"Oh?" he said, pausing. "I wasn't aware we have someone new in the cathedral."
The conversation around you stopped almost immediately as the nuns turned towards him with polite confusion, as though his question itself was strange.
Grace tilted her head slighlty, "A new face?" she repeated, as if trying to understand what he meant.
"Grandmaster, what are you talking about?" Victoria asked.
Grace's brow furrowed faintly as she looked between Varka and you. "[Name] has been with us for as long as I can remember," she said, her tone carrying absolute certainty. "How could you forget the second deaconess, Grandmaster?"
'Huh..?' The words made something in Varka's mind stall.
He glanced over at you again, then back at the nuns, searching for any sign of uncertainty, any hesitation that might suggest a misunderstanding or a simple prank they decided to play on him.
But there was none.
Grace, Victoria and the others all looked genuinely puzzled by his reaction, as though the question he had asked made no sense at all.
And yet, no matter how long he looked, he could not recall ever meeting you.
Not once.
As far as he knew, Barbara was the only deaconess of the cathedral...
The realisation should have unsettled him more than it did, but what unsettled him even further was the fact that you were smiling at him as though this entire situation was perfectly ordinary. More than that, nothing in him reacted with alarm. Even his instincts, honed through years of battle and command, remained quiet. There was no sense of threat, no warning to step back or prepare for combat.
"You must have had a long day," you finally said, stepping forward slightly. "Training recruits can be rather exhausting, Grandmaster."
Before he could respond, you raised a hand towards his arm, your attention shifting to the shallow cuts he had almost forgotten about. "May I?" you asked, already reaching for him without pressing.
Varka hesitated for only a moment before extending his hand. Something about the way you moved made resistance feel unnecessary, not because he trusted you fully, but because there was an odd sense of inevitability to it, as though this interaction had already been decided long before he arrived.
The moment your fingers made contact with his skin, warmth spread through him.
It felt like sunlight pressing gently against his muscles, easing tension he had not realised he was carrying. The shallow cuts closed almost instantly, the skin knitting itself back together in a way that suggested precision far beyond ordinary healing. Even the lingering soreness from hours of training seemed to dissolve, leaving behind an unfamiliar lightness in his arm.
He exhaled slowly, forcing a light laugh as he rolled his shoulders back, "Hahaha...maybe," he said, scratching the back of his head as if trying to shake off the strange feeling. "That might be a sign I should start taking breaks earlier in the day."
You only smiled at that, and then without lingering any longer, you turned back towards the nuns and continued your work as though nothing unusual had happened at all.
Varka remained for a moment longer, watching you as you moved seamlessly back into the rhythm of the cathedral.
Eventually, he convinced himself that perhaps he had simply misremembered. It was an easy explanation, especially after months away from Mondstadt. Faces blurred together over time, and he had never been particularly good with names outside of battlefields and command structures.
By evening, he had almost managed to let it go.
Almost.
The streets of Mondstadt were lively when he arrived at Angel's Share, the glow of lanterns spilling warm light across the cobblestones. Laughter drifted out from the tavern, mixed with the sound of music and clinking glasses, and Varka allowed himself to relax as he stepped inside.
The relaxation did not last long.
Behind the counter, you were there again.
Varka stopped just inside the entrance without realising, his gaze locked onto you immediately.
There was no mistaking it.
The same face he had seen at the cathedral only hours earlier was now serving drinks behind the bar with practiced ease, speaking with customers as though you had done this job for years.
"...Deaconess?"
Rosaria, seated nearby on the bar, glanced at him over her drink with mild disinterest. "I don't think Barbara works here, Varka." she said flatly, before returning to her glass.
Varka shook his head slightly, still not taking his eyes off you. "No, I'm not talking about Barbara..I meant [Name]."
Rosaria's gaze flicked over to you before it settled back onto him, "[Name] isn't a deaconess, Grandmaster," she added, as though correcting something obvious.
At the sound of your name, you looked up from the drink you were preparing, giving him a small smile as you finished the drink you were working on, sliding it across the counter to Kaeya, who was already watching the exchange with quiet amusement.
Kaeya gave you a small nod of thanks before taking a slow sip, clearly enjoying himself. "She's been working here for quite a while," he said casually, as though confirming something universally known. "One of the best bartenders in Mondstadt, actually. You've had her drinks before, Grandmaster. Don't tell me you've forgotten?"
Varka frowned.
"I don't remember ordering from her before.."
Kaeya raised an eyebrow, "Well your memory does get fuzzy when you drink.."
Varka didn't respond immediately. His attention had drifted back to you, watching the way you moved behind the counter, the way customers interacted with you as though there was nothing unusual about your presence at all. Someone even greeted you warmly as they entered, and you responded without hesitation, calling them by name as though you had known them for years.
Everyone else seemed completely certain you had always been here.
Just like the nuns in the cathedral.
"..What are you?" Varka finally asked, lowering himself onto the stool beside Kaeya, his voice quieter now, gaze serious.
The question hung in the air for only a moment.
You blinked from behind the counter, tilting your head slightly, the same small smile still present on your face.
"Just a bartender, Grandmaster," you said gently, as if the question itself was unnecessary. "Perhaps your workload is getting to you."
Varka sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I..maybe."
You poured another drink and slid it towards him without breaking eye contact for long.
"On the house."
Kaeya let out a low whistle, placing his empty glass down. "Lucky," he commented lightly. Then, turning his attention back to the counter, he added, "On another note, what do you put in these? They always taste better than Charles's."
You let out a small laugh, shrugging as you turned back to your work.
"A little magical touch, maybe."
When Alice had told you to stay in Mondstadt for the time being, mentioning that someone should be there to keep tabs on things physically, you had accepted without thinking too much about it.
Mondstadt was...peaceful.
Too peaceful, in fact.
After the Traveller's help in resolving various incidents happening, there was almost nothing left in the city of freedom that required immediate attention. Even the usual disturbances had quieted down.
With the return of the Grandmaster, Mondstadt had never felt safer.
And it wasn't as if you could simply go out and deal with nearby monsters either. Apparently, someone had already been clearing out camps before you could even get to them. (and judging by the aftermath, they seemed to enjoy it far too much.)
Hence there was little else to do.
So what else could you do to entertain yourself but to experience the daily roles the citizens provide?
A librarian one day.
A florist the next.
A bartender after that.
The cycle came easily to you. Your magic allowing you to blend in rather easily, people remembering you exactly as you appeared to them in that very moment, each version of you settling into their minds as something natural.
It has become a routine of yours.
However, Mondstadt, for all its charm, could only offer so many occupations to slip into—after a while, even the novelty of it began to fade.
Until today.
As you cleaned a wine glass at Angel's Share, you could feel the Grandmaster's gaze on you. Despite what he had said earlier, it seemed even he was having difficulty believing his own conclusion.
For the first time in a long while, someone in Mondstadt was not playing along with the version of reality you had quietly arranged.
No wonder the Hexenzirkle spoke so highly of Varka at times. He could clearly break through some barrier of your magic.
A small spark of interest stirred in your chest.
Finally
Something fun again.
"...So you're working at Cat's Tail again?"
Varka leaned against the counter of Cat's Tail, a drink in hand as he watched you move around behind it.
After his first encounter with you, he had started noticing a pattern—or rather, he told himself it was a pattern he was noticing on purpose.
The truth was that his eyes seemed to find you in Mondstadt far more often than coincidence should allow. At first, he had convinced himself it was caution. Your existence was, after all, unusual to him.
Someone who appeared in multiple places, in multiple roles, without anyone questioning it...that warranted attention.
A potential threat, perhaps. One that simply had not revealed itself yet.
But the longer he watched, the harder that explanation became to maintain.
You were harmless.
Not only harmless, but competent in every role you took. Whether behind a bar, in a cathedral, or serving food at Good Hunter, everything you did carried the same ease.
Even children gravitated towards you without hesitation.
Klee had shown up more than once, proudly presenting drawings, and you had responded each time with genuine enthusiasm, as though it was the most important thing in the world.
And if Alice hadn't stopped Klee from hanging around you, then surely you must be safe.
Therefore, you must just be..
A very hardworking person who had taken up multiple jobs in Mondstadt—and somehow, everyone else had agreed to keep up with it.
"Whatever do you mean, Grandmaster?" your voice cut through his thoughts.
Varka blinked, returning to the present. You were looking at him now, head tilted slighlty, expression calm as ever.
"Oh?" he said, letting out a short laugh as he straightened slightly, "You're still keeping that up?"
He took another sip of his drink before settlinng down on the counter.
"I think I've figured you out."
"Really?" you asked, voice light.
"Yep!" Varka nodded, a little too confidently. "It's actually simpler than I thought."
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing something important.
"You're just one hardworking citzen." he grinned. "And everyone just agreed not to mention your other jobs when you're working somewhere else, right? Like, I get it. People don't usually bring up other work in the middle of a shift. It's just..very committed of everyone to keep it consistent."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then you burst into laughter.
Varka blinked, straightening up again, "What? Did I get it wrong?"
You wiped a small tear from the corner of your eye, still smiling as you shook your head slightly.
"Oh, Varka.." You said softly, almost fondly. "Never stop being you."
Before he could respond, you picked up a few boxes from behind the counter and stepped out from your station, brushing past him as you moved towards the back.
"Hey—wait," he called after you, grabbing his drink as he went. "What does that mean?!"
But you didn't answer, only continuing down the corridor, humming a light, almost teasing tune as if the conversation had already ended in your favour.
He met you again when he was out exploring.
It seems this time, you were a knight, now dressed in the classic uniform belonging to the Knights of Favonius.
"Fancy meeting you here," Varka called out as he jogged up beside you, quickly matching your pace. "On patrol duty?" His gaze briefly swept over you, lingering for a moment longer on your face. "I don't think I've ever seen you as a knight before."
"Mhm..." You were only half-listening, eyes scanning the surrounding terrain.
In truth, Alice's message had been brief but clear—there had been an unusual concentration of Abyssal energy in the area, and you had come to investigate.
You hadn't expected Varka to be here as well.
"Are you exploring the area?" You asked, turning your head slightly towards him.
"Ah, yeah." Varka replied easily, hands loosely at his sides as he walked. "Just checking a few things. Got some intel that something might be going on around here."
Intel?
Had Alice alerted him as well?
You exhaled softly, shaking your head. That woman was definitely scheming something. She knew you were more than capable of handling Abyssal disturbances alone—sending Varka as well meant she wasn't concerned about the threat.
She was interested in something else entirely.
"What's wrong?" Varka's voice pulled you back.
"H—Oof-!" your thoughts cut off sharply as you bumped into something solid in front of you.
A hand caught your waist almost immediately, steadying you before you could stumble back.
When did he get infront of you?
"Woah," Varka said, his grip careful, "What's got you so lost in thought?"
You looked up, and only then did you fully register how close he was.
Varka was already looking at you, concern evident in his expression, his attention entirely fixed on you as if the surroundings didn't matter as much anymore. For a brief second, your focus slipped and warmth rose faintly to your face.
"Nothing, nothing." you said quickly, pulling away and letting out a small cough as you turned forward again, picking up your pace.
The attempt at normalcy lasted only a few steps.
The air ahead of you shifted.
It wasn't subtly. The space in front of the path warped unnaturally, as though something had torn through the boundary and before you could fully react, purple vines snapped out from the portal, coiling around your wrists and ankles, yanking you forward with violent force.
The suddenness stole even your voice.
Your body moved on instinct, magic gathering at your fingertips to sever the bindings without hesitation—annoyance flaring sharper than alarm at how easily you had been caught off guard.
But before you could act, something cut through the air beside you with overwhelming force.
Steel cleaved through the vines in a single, decisive motion, and the restraints loosened instantly as the entire construct fractured under the impact. In the same movement, a strong arm hooked around you again, pulling you cleanly out of reach.
This time, the motion carried you fully against his torse.
You blinked once, adjusting to the sudden change in position. Your hands instinctively pressed against his chest for balance, and only then did you register just how solid he actually was—how the impact hadn’t shifted him in the slightest.
Oh.
Varka was…buff buff.
“Are you alright?!” Varka asked immediately, already scanning you for injuries. His grip was steady but careful, his focus entirely on you rather than the fading remains of the trap. “Any injuries anywhere?”
“...” You could only nod, your eyes lingering a second too long on his arm where it flexed as he adjusted his stance.
Maybe you could play as a damsel in distress a little longer.
The portal had long since collapsed behind the two of you, leaving only the unfamiliar stretch of land ahead and the quiet awareness that there was no immediate way back. Whatever had dragged you in had not left a clear exit, which meant the only option now was to move forward and find one.
As you walked through the dim terrain, Varka stayed close—close enough that it was no longer subtle. His presence remained slightly angled between you and the surrounding space, as though he had quietly decided that if anything else tried to appear, it would have to go through him first.
His gaze shifted briefly, taking in your equipment with a faint crease of confusion.
“Where’s your sword?”
“What?”
Varka nodded once, as if it should have been obvious. His eyes flicked down toward your belt again, where a weapon would normally sit if you were truly on duty as a knight. “Your sword,” he repeated, more pointedly this time. “Don’t tell me you were on patrol without it.”
“Oh…” you said slowly, as if searching for an answer that sounded remotely normal. “I… forgot?”
Even you could hear how unconvincing that was.
Varka stopped walking for half a step before continuing again, though his expression had shifted into something more serious. Not angry, but unmistakably disapproving in the way someone in charge of too many reckless recruits eventually becomes.
“[Name],” he said, your name carrying a weight of habit and command, “as a knight, you should always be prepared.”
“You’re lucky I was here,” he continued, tone firm. “Who knows what would have happened if you were alone—without your sword, no less.”
You hummed softly under your breath, falling back into step beside him as your hands rested loosely at your sides.
“…Mm,” you responded, deliberately mild. “That would’ve been unfortunate.”
Varka didn’t look entirely convinced by your lack of concern, but he didn’t push further either. Instead, he simply exhaled through his nose, as though silently accepting that you were one of those knights—reckless in a way that somehow still managed to work out in the end.
You let out a quiet chuckle, following after him as the two of you progressed further into the area. Varka cleared each wave of monsters with practiced efficiency, his claymore moving with the kind of ease that came from years of experience.
At the same time, he made sure to keep you positioned safely behind him.
Not that you weren’t helping.
Just subtly adjusting things here and there, unseen currents of magic bending outcomes ever so slightly in your favor as you watched him work. It was almost entertaining, the way he cleared each wave with such straightforward efficiency, completely unaware that the battlefield itself had already been tilted.
“Huh,” Varka said after the last enemy fell, sheathing his claymore and glancing around with a slight tilt of his head. “That’s strange. I usually clear these fast, but this felt… smoother somehow.”
Before the two of you could progress any further, a faint ringing sound cut through the air.
You both paused.
A small Dodoco-like device sat nearby, vibrating lightly as if waiting to be answered. Varka instinctively stepped forward, but you reached it first, tapping it lightly.
“Hello, hello?” came a bright, unmistakably amused voice.
Alice.
“Oh, wonderful,” she continued without waiting. “It seems my two very reliable friends have cleared the area quite nicely.”
“Ah yeah..we’re just trying to find a way out.” Varka scratched the back of his neck, looking around. “Say, do you know anything about this place Alice?”
“Oho? But I’m sure my fellow member here could have easily teleported you two out,” Alice said lightly, “right, [Name]?”
“Wha—fellow member?” Varka’s head snapped toward you immediately.
You didn’t look surprised at all. If anything, your expression leaned more toward mild resignation, like this was exactly what you expected from Alice.
“I knew you were up to something,” you said, frowning slightly as you poked the Dodoco. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Oops!” Alice chirped. “Well, Barbie and I just thought we’d help our dear Grandmaster a little. After all, who wouldn’t want to play matchmaker with him?” The device bounced slightly, as if delighted with itself.
“Matchmaker?” you repeated, turning your head slowly toward Varka.
He had gone very still.
Then, far too casually, he looked away and gave a small whistle as though suddenly fascinated by absolutely nothing in particular.
“Why yes!” Alice continued happily, entirely unbothered. “After noticing what—or who has been keeping the Grandmaster so distracted, I simply had to try! Well then, I’ll leave you two to it!” The Dodoco gave one last cheerful bounce before disappearing in a soft burst of smoke.
Silence settled.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Varka cleared his throat.
“So…” he said, slower now, finally looking at you again. “You’re a Hexenzirkel witch.”
“Yes,” you admitted.
You paused for a moment, then added with a small sigh, as though genuinely reflecting on something lost, “There goes my entertainment in watching you figure things out.”
“You’re no fun anymore.”
The teasing remark was supposed to be harmless.
Instead, Varka's expression changed almost immediately.
Before he fully thought it through, he stepped forward and reached for your wrist.
The movement wasn't forceful. If anything, it felt strangely instinctive, like he had reacted before his mind had caught up. The moment his fingers closed around your wrist, he seemed to realize what he'd done—and yet he didn’t let go, only loosening his hold.
"Don't say that."
The words came out quieter than expected.
Varka exhaled slowly through his nose, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to you. There was something unguarded in it now, something that hadn’t been there a second ago.
"I'm still me, you know.." he mumbled, a faint crease now between his brows.
"I found out one thing about you. That's all. It doesn't suddenly mean I've got you completely figured out."
His thumb shifted unconsciously against your wrist before stilling when he realised what he was doing.
"If anything, I think I've got more questions now than I did before."
"Oh?"
"Yeah.."
Varka let out a short laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it himself either.
“I mean, come on! One moment I think you’re a knight who somehow forgot her sword, and the next Alice is telling me you’re with the Hexenzirkel and someone who could’ve teleported us out of here whenever you wanted.”
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he spoke, some of his usual warmth returning. “I’m still trying to process that.”
You glanced away briefly, hiding the amusement that threatened to surface. “Sounds like a skill issue.”
“It probably is.”
The answer came so quickly that it caught you off guard and a chuckle escaped before you could stop it.
Varka's smile widened at the sound, though it faded into something quieter a moment later. His gaze dropped once more to where he still held your wrist.
"Ah but…” He hesitated, suddenly looking far less certain than usual. “If all of this bothers you—the matchmaking thing, I mean…”
His words trailed off.
For the first time since meeting him, he looked genuinely unsure of himself.
"I don't want to come off too strong.." Varka said softly, his free hand moving to rub his neck. "After spending so long watching you and trying to figure you out, I guess I..." He paused, a faint look of self-consciousness crossing his face. "I found myself looking forward to finding out more about you."
The admission hung in the air between you.
A quiet laugh escaped him as he shook his head.
"Honestly, finding out you're a part of the Hexenzirkel just means I've got even more things left to learn."
His gaze met yours again.
“So don't go deciding I'm boring now."
A familiar grin finally returned, softer than the easy, carefree smiles he usually wore but no less genuine. His fingers slipped from your wrist to lace gently through yours, holding your hand as though it already belonged there. Then he lifted it, his eyes never leaving yours, and brushed a lingering kiss across your knuckles.
"Aftr all, I haven't even had the chance to impress you properly yet, [Name]."
masterlist
notes: aaaaa i kinda had to rush the ending a little so hopefully it's not too wonky. But yay i finally finished it!! witch x knight is such a fun troupe tbh
edit: rewrote a few things because i wasn't really satisfied with the way the ending was written..🙏
The kitten quietly shivers in your arms. You automatically try to give it warmth by rubbing your cozy, knitted sleeves against it — only to realize that it was useless because your clothes were as soaked as its fur.
You hurried inside your condominium building, only nodding at the guard instead of your usual greetings. Fortunately, the elevator arrived quickly today. ‘Honestly, who would want to go outside in this crazy weather?!’
Now walking along your floor’s hallway, you were mentally berating yourself for causing such a trail of mess that the maintenance staff would have to clean up.
‘I am NOT forgetting my umbrella anymore.’
‘Or maybe I should just not go outside anymore.’
‘I’ve left a trail of puddles, haven’t I? Then they would follow the trail and trace it to my unit. Then they’re gonna know it’s me. Oh god—’
“[Name]?” You’d recognize that familiar, sharp tone anywhere. “Why the fuck are you so wet?”
Huh?
You blinked. “What?”
“What ‘what’?”
You cough in an attempt to swallow down the laughter bubbling in your throat. Scaramouche panics, running to get closer. Though, when he does, he fusses. Arms only hovering, not touching. Lips merely parting, voicing out nothing.
He doesn’t know what to do.
So he does what he does best.
“This is what you get from showering in the rain.”
Masking his intentions through crafted teasing.
Your face heats up at the close proximity, sensing his hand closely behind you. An inch closer and you’re sure he’d come in contact with the drenched fabric of your sweater. And the sheer knowledge of what could be causes you to fail in discerning whether the shiver that just ran down your spine was because of the cold, or because of him.
You laugh to distract both yourselves. “That’s not why I coughed, Scara! Why would you say it like that earlier!”
“What did I say?”
“You asked me why I was wet!”
His brows furrow. “But you are?”
Your lips curve, but you don’t reply. You only stare back, hoping that he’d realize what you were pointing at by himself.
Scaramouche thought he’d seen delight in all forms, but you managed to surprise him in another way again. Or maybe he just wasn’t looking at others properly before, and this was the first time he did. Because since when did pure amusement look so apparent in one’s eyes? So bright and glistening, so much so that not even the twinkling raindrops resting in your eyelashes could repress it.
He just stays still standing there for a while that you’re the one starting to get embarrassed instead of him. Was he really that slow or is your mind just so… questionable? You almost think that you should just let it go because he doesn’t seem to get it, but you notice his ears starting to flush red.
You smile. He blinks.
“So you realize now what you said. Good to know my mind isn’t the issue here!”
“What?”
You hum, not bothering to repeat what it is he said earlier in consideration for Scaramouche’s pride. At least he now knows! So he’s also the type who gets embarrassed by stuff like that.
‘Him with his flushed ears looked so adorable.’
Meanwhile, the man with you remained puzzled. He was just admiring your eyes.
So what the fuck did he say earlier that made you this teasing?
Scaramouche sighs. “Dry yourself immediately when you enter your unit. Take a quick shower, too. Don’t let yourself get sick.”
“But I have to dry the kitten first.” You raise up the kitten even more. “It’s shivering, see? It might get sick.”
“And you won’t?” He flicks your forehead and gives a contemplative stare at the kitten in your arms, before finally sighing and taking the little one away from you.
“Hm?”
“I’ll dry him instead. You go ahead and have a warm shower first. Come back to my unit after you’re done.”
“Okay, I’ll just ring the —”
“The passcode’s ‘0-1-0-3’.”
Hello?
“Why are you telling me your passcode?! Are you stupid?!”
He smirks. “Wow. That’s the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of that question for once.”
“Shush! No, why did I even ask. You’re actually stupid.”
“I’m not. I just thought, aren’t we friends at this point?”
“Wait, really?”
“Ouch,” he says plainly. “Was I the only one thinking that?”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way! Fine then, I’ll say mine too.”
“You don’t have t—”
“Mine is ‘0-3-0-1’.”
I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau
prev . masterlist . next
NOTE: so like, if we think about it, at the end, yn did call scara sir 🤔🤗 also song lyrics scara wrote is from 'aphrodite' by the ridleys ^^ pls listen if u still haven't it's such a good song :))
synopsis: you and the young grand master have been stealing glances and sharing secret moments for months—but one moonlit night in the garden may change everything.
note: varka brainrot hit again. 6k+ words of pure romantic tension and varka being a gentleman. I grieve this man like he’s my husband who went off to war and died anyway xoxo enjoy lovelies
content: slow burn, fluff, mutual pining, mentions of alcohol, intoxication, first kiss
The violinists arrived early, while the morning was still undecided between coolness and warmth. They lingered in the garden, conversing in low voices about music and notation, about the curious resemblance between calligraphic strokes and melody, and about the birds whose singing threaded itself through their discussion, as though listening with particular attention.
Meanwhile, within the ballroom, the staff were already at work. Chairs were set and reset until the orchestra stood in proper order; candlesticks were polished to a patient gleam; bouquets were placed, removed, and placed again, until they appeared effortless. Tables were laid with the same precision, silverware aligned, linens smoothed, every detail attended to with the seriousness reserved for occasions like this.
You woke to the measured sounds of the house stirring: veranda doors opening and closing, the snap and sigh of sheets shaken clean in the morning wind, the delicate clink of teacups set carefully against their saucers as a few of the ladies took their breakfast below. You lay still and listened, allowing the quiet order of it to settle you, though it did not last long. Soon enough, the maids came, to remind you that there would be a ball that evening and that you were expected to be prepared for it.
You bloomed that summer. Your fruit ripened, and your soul melted into your body. You no longer wore your skin as a blanket. Darkness settled under your tongue and swirled in your gut when you saw flawless society arrive through the city gates earlier that week, their laughs on Cider Lake beach where you drowned your worries in.
In the bath, white lilies pressed against the nudity of your breast. The water clouded faintly with steam, and the scent of them filled the room until it felt almost too intimate to bear. You rested your arms along the porcelain rim and closed your eyes, while the maids brushed through your hair.
You watched as they gathered the lilies away, petal by petal, leaving the water suddenly plain. You watched the lilies disappear and felt, with an unexpected sharpness, the loss of their brief beauty, how easily what is arranged for one is removed, once it has served its purpose.
You rose when they told you to, letting the warmth slip from your skin, already bracing yourself for the evening ahead.
As the sun set, the orchestra was already deep in its performance when you entered. The violins no longer hesitated; they pressed forward, bright and insistent, binding the movement of the dancers and the attention of the onlookers alike.
Heat lay thick in the air. Candle-smoke drifted upward in pale ribbons, catching beneath the gilded ceiling before dispersing, and the scent of wax mingled with perfume and wool and something faintly metallic like brass buttons, perhaps, or anticipation. You paused just inside the threshold, long enough to steady yourself.
Dresses brushed past you. Silk, muslin, satin stiff with newness. The sound of fabric was constant, a low whispering tide, punctuated by laughter and the sharper notes of greeting. You moved with caution, mindful of your hem, your posture, the exact placement of your hands. Your gloves, newly cleaned but old, fit more tightly than you liked, and you resisted the urge to flex your fingers.
Someone brushed your arm in passing and murmured an apology; you inclined your head without looking up.
You took your place near the edge of the room. From there, you could see without being seen, and listen without being obliged to speak. The air was fresher from the open windows, the light not as harsh. You had learned early that there was a certain safety in the periphery, that attention, once granted, was rarely withdrawn without cost.
Around you, conversation swelled. Names were exchanged, compliments offered, fortunes assessed in glances and pauses. You caught fragments, news of an engagement, girls barely of age laughing drunkenly under the stairs, and later a remark on the excellence of the supper to come. Then, a familiar name appeared once, then again, Grand Master, spoken with the casual reverence reserved for men whose lives were understood to be larger than the rooms they entered. Each time, you felt the faintest tightening in your chest, as though your body recognized something your mind refused to acknowledge.
Something crashed, more laughter.
The oak doors opened, and with them came the unmistakable advance of his presence, long strides carrying him toward the center of the room, his coat shifting with the movement, one hand rising briefly to his collar as though to loosen it. He glanced about him, no more than courtesy required—
and then he saw you, before he saw anything else the room had to offer.
You were still eyeing something out the window, not noticing him yet, your gloved fingers playing with the diamonds at your throat.
It’s her, he thought. That girl I remember. That swoony type, dauntless hair, kindling eyes, cheeks like wine. Beauty as life and poison. Bleeding sun.
You were watching the last carriages descend the cobblestone Mondstadt streets when you felt it—the quiet tug at the back of your neck, a peculiar awareness that someone was no longer merely present, but observing.
You turned, almost without thought, and met his eyes. Blue that reminded you of winter mornings, sharp yet tender, capable of piercing the heart and leaving it raw, and the hair that fell over them, pale gold, catching the candlelight like strands of sun long hidden in the night. The effect was immediate: a small, precise command of attention that required nothing more than the mere act of looking. He held your gaze for a heartbeat that stretched impossibly long, and in it, you sensed something that had nothing to do with words. Recognition, perhaps, and something warmer beneath it.
He stepped closer, and you could almost hear the polished floor echoing faintly beneath his boots. The room pressed in around him, laughter, music, rustle of skirts.
You felt the pull in your chest, fingers tightening at your sides. He adjusted his cuff, his coat shifting as he moved, and the small motion made your pulse quicken.
He moved again, drawn toward you, when suddenly an elderly gentleman stepped forward, doffing his hat with a courteous bow and offering his hand to the Grand Master. He paused, almost reluctantly, his eyes never leaving yours, as the crowd and ceremony intervened.
You swallowed against the ache in your chest. His presence had come so close, only to be pulled away, and still, he lingered on the edges of your vision, a tether you could neither reach nor release.
The evening carried on in a whirl of music and light. You danced and laughed, glass in hand, letting the warmth of the wine and the rhythm of the waltz loosen the tight coil of restraint you had carried all week. You felt your dress swirl about your legs, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but feel so tremendously alive.
It was drunkenness. Intoxication. Everything lay in that. Was it not the only question worth considering? In order not to feel the horrible burden of time, which breaks one's shoulders and bows us down to earth, one must intoxicate oneself without truce, but with what? Maybe wine, poetry, and art. And you felt it then, Ragnvindr’s bottles opened and spilled, the Grand Master’s eyes on you.
You moved through the dancers almost blindly, catching glimpses of him across the room: his posture impeccable, his eyes scanning, never resting on anyone but you. You told yourself you imagined it, that the proximity of his presence was simply the hall’s trick of mirrors and candlelight, but each glance reinforced a truth you couldn’t admit.
At last, as the musicians’ bows swept upward in a rising cadence, he drew close. The press of bodies left him only a fraction away; you could feel the subtle heat of him against your side. Then, almost impossibly, his hand brushed the curve of your waist, light, secret, sweet, and forbidden.
He leaned down, so that the brush of his lips was near your ear, his breath a faint warmth, carrying words you could not ignore:
“After the next song… meet me in the garden alcove.”
You shivered with anticipation and the thrill of being singled out in a room of dozens. Then, as quickly as the moment came, he stepped back, resuming the social distance demanded by the ball. Your pulse raced, chest tight, and yet the world had narrowed: for now, the only thing that mattered was the promise in that whispered instruction.
The music resumed, sweeping you along with the others. You danced, smiled, and drank, all the while counting each measure until the next song ended, waiting for the moment when you could finally slip away and meet him, unobserved, in the quiet shadow of the garden.
You slipped through the shadowed archway at the edge of the terrace, letting the noise of the ballroom fall away behind you. The garden was cool and still, moonlight pooling over the neatly trimmed hedges and stone paths, pale stars rising, blooming over the oaks.
He was there, leaning lightly against the wrought-iron railing of the intimate nook, his coat brushed back just enough to catch the moonlight, top buttons undone at the chest. The sight of him made your pulse stutter, as though the evening’s music had condensed into the steady beat at your chest. For a moment, you didn’t speak. He simply watched you approach, eyes intent, blue and luminous, holding both recognition and the ache of the time not seeing you.
“I see you made it,” he said finally, voice barely more than a breath.
You nodded, unable to trust your voice, aware of how strange it felt to be here, alone with him at last. Your mind drifted, unbidden, to a summer long past, a quiet library, a small leather book in your hands, the faint scratch of ink on parchment. You had read aloud just enough for him to hear, and he had listened, sitting there next to you, watching the way your lips moved as every poetic phrase rolled off your tongue.
The memory came unbidden, as memories often do in quiet moments.
The air had smelled faintly of wax and old leather, like the Knights of Favonius Library always did, the light slanting across the shelves in soft golden beams.
You had been seated near the window, a volume open in your hands, reading for no one but yourself, absorbed in the careful, deliberate rhythm of the sentences.
"Dandelion, dandelion, ride the wind to a faraway land."
The little fox chanted.
He blew the dandelion flower and sent the seeds flying. He then spoke in a more serious tone.
"May my teacher's wishes ride the wind and reach the Anemo Archon."
Reading, for you, was a retreat. An act of self-possession in a world that measured women by their manners rather than their thoughts. You had believed that the rustling of pages and the turning of your eyes would go unseen.
He had appeared then, quiet in the doorway, observing the room with the easy authority of one who belonged, yet with the patience of a guest. And, when his glance fell on you, it didn’t linger like curiosity or amusement. It was soft.
“Do you find it comforts you, or troubles you?” he asked, voice low and unassuming.
You looked up at him, startled, not by the question alone, but by him. By the improbable fact of his standing there at all.
The Grand Master, and so young. A name spoken often and always with a measure of admiration. You had seen him only at a distance before: passing through the city with purpose, returning from hunting parties with the other gentlemen of consequence, his presence noted and then promptly deferred to. Never here. Never paused. Certainly never addressing you.
For a fleeting moment, you wondered if you had misunderstood, if the question had been meant for someone else, someone of greater consequence, someone better suited to answer it. Yet his attention did not waver. It rested upon you with a patience that made retreat impossible.
And so you answered him honestly.
“It troubles me,” you admitted. “I can’t help but feel the little fox’s pain. Yet perhaps it is the kind of trouble one must endure.”
He had listened, and there had been no interruption, no immediate judgment, no attempt at cleverness or flirtation.
You remembered the faint rise of his brow, the careful way his hand rested on the edge of the shelf, the patient weight of his attention. You had never felt so quietly seen, nor so entirely understood, without the insistence of being pursued or admired.
“At what moment does it trouble you most?” he asked at last. “When the fox is misunderstood, or when he continues, knowing he will be?”
You glanced back down at the page, considering. The room felt suddenly smaller.
“When he chooses to stay,” you said. “When leaving would be easier, and yet he does not, calling out to the Anemo Archon to ease his worries.” You paused, then added, almost wryly, “I suspect perseverance is only admired once it succeeds.”
That drew a soft laugh from him.
“You may be right,” he said. “History is rarely kind to those who persist without spectacle.”
You allowed yourself a small smile. “Then the little fox is fortunate to be fictional.”
“Or unfortunate,” he replied lightly. “Fiction is less forgiving. It remembers everything.”
You closed the book partway, your thumb holding the page. “You sound as though you have argued with novels before.”
“I have lost to several,” he admitted. “This one included.”
That earned a glance from you, curious now, warmer. “You have read it?”
“More than once,” he said. “Though I suspect I admired it for different reasons than you.”
“Oh?” you asked, unable to stop yourself.
He considered you carefully. “I was younger,” he said. “I believed endurance was enough. I had not yet learned how lonely it can be.”
Your expression must have shifted, because he added, gently, “You see? You have already improved my understanding of it.”
You laughed then. Quietly, surprised by yourself. “I did not intend to offer instruction.”
“I will accept it regardless,” he said. “On the condition that you continue to read where others can overhear.”
You raised a brow. “That sounds perilously like encouragement.”
“Only of the most dangerous kind,” he replied. “An independent thought.”
You hesitated, then gestured, small, almost self-conscious, to the empty chair beside you. “If you are to overhear properly,” you said, “you may find it requires closer proximity.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, amused by the care in which the invitation was offered. He moved at once, drawing the chair nearer, yet leaving a precise, courteous distance between you.
You opened the book again, smoothing the page with your thumb. For a moment, you wondered whether your voice might falter, whether the awareness of him seated so near would disturb the steady rhythm you had always trusted. But when you began to read, the words came as they always had: measured, thoughtful, unhurried.
He listened in complete stillness. You became aware of the way his attention followed the sentences, the way his breath seemed to pause with the commas and resume at the end of each line. Once, you stumbled over a word, and he did not correct you, only waited.
Outside the library, voices drifted past and faded again, but neither of you turned. The world continued on its way, unaware that something had shifted in so modest a corner of the room.
When you reached the end of the passage, you stopped from a sudden awareness of how near he was, how entirely he had given himself to listening.
“That,” he said quietly, after a moment, “is not how I have heard it read before.”
You closed the book, uncertain whether to smile. “Most people hurry through it.”
“I cannot imagine why,” he replied. “There are things that lose meaning when they are rushed.”
There was a weighted pause. He seemed to consider something, his gaze drifting briefly toward the window, where the light had begun to soften, casting the stone city walls in a shimmering marigold.
“I wonder,” he said at last, carefully, “if you might permit me to continue this conversation at another time.”
You looked at him then, surprised not by the suggestion itself, but by the restraint with which it was offered.
“I am not certain that would be appropriate,” you said, gently but firmly.
He nodded, as though he had expected no less. “I thought you might say that.”
“And yet you ask,” you observed.
“Yes,” he replied, smoothing the hair that fell across his eyes. “Because I would regret not having done so.”
You hesitated, your fingers still resting on the closed book. “Where,” you asked, “did you imagine such a conversation might take place?”
He considered this, then said, “The beach, perhaps. At Cider Lake. There is a stretch of sand the others seldom visit in the evenings.”
The specificity unsettled you more than the invitation itself.
“I do not make a habit of being elsewhere in the evenings,” you said.
“Nor do I,” he answered. “Which is precisely why I ask.”
You looked away, your pulse unsteady. “I cannot promise anything.”
“I would not expect you to,” he said. Then, more softly, “Only that you consider it.”
He rose then, smoothing his coat, restoring the distance propriety demanded. “I shall be there tomorrow,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Just in case.”
You watched him go, the room altered by his absence, the book still warm beneath your hand.
And long after he had left, you remained seated, wondering when listening had begun to feel so perilous.
You very nearly did not go.
The evening was pale and cooling, the light stretched thin across the lake. From your window, the path to the beach looked too open, too exposed. You told yourself the invitation had been casual enough to ignore.
And yet.
You walked.
He was already there, standing near the water, his coat unfastened, gaze fixed on the far edge of the lake. When he turned and saw you, something in his expression shifted. Relief?
“I wasn’t sure you would come,” he said.
“Neither was I,” you replied.
You walked for a while without speaking, steps quiet on the sand. The lake was calm, the sound of the water steady and soft, the evening sky awash with peach, apricot, cream; tender little ice-cream clouds in a wide orange sky.
“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said. “Yesterday.”
“No— no, you didn’t,” you answered almost too quickly. “But I thought about it.”
He sighed. “That’s fair.”
You stopped where the beach narrowed. He stayed a careful distance away.
“I wanted to know,” he said, “if our conversation mattered to you. Or if it was just… pleasant.”
You looked out at the water. “To be honest with you, Grand Master, I don’t usually remember things that are only pleasant.”
“Please,” he said. “Don’t call me that.”
You glanced at him. “Not… Grand Master?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Not here. It’s just that… titles make people expect certain things.”
You watched intently at the way his throat bobbed.
“Like what?”
“Courage. Obedience. Decisions I’m not always ready to give. I don’t want that between us.”
You studied him quietly. “I didn’t realize it mattered so much.”
“It does,” he said. “Out there, it’s necessary. But here… I want to be just myself. Not the part that has to lead or command.”
You nodded. “Hmmm, then what should I call you, oh great Grand Master?”
“Varka,” he said. Flat, matter-of-fact. “Just Varka.”
You repeated it once, testing the sound. No flourish, no praise, just acknowledgment.
He gave a brief smile, almost imperceptible. “Good.”
Seagulls tumbled and called above the water, a crab scuttled sideways in the sand, a dog barked in the distance, and the cathedral bells tolled slowly, marking the hours as the nuns made their way along the city bridge.
You kicked at a small stone, watching it skitter once and sink into the sand. “I have to ask,” you said, voice quiet, “why are you pursuing me like this? Out here, at the library… now the beach?”
He glanced at you, the last of the sun glinting off the water. “Pursuing might be too strong a word,” he said. “More like… investigating a curiosity.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Curiosity? And what would that mean?”
“I happened to see you once,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Once?” you repeated, suspicious.
“Starsnatch Cliff,” he continued, stepping carefully on the sand. “I had been riding back from a mission, long after the sun had started its slow descent, and there you were. Sitting on a little rise, facing the cliffs. Painting. Completely… absorbed. Hair completely untamed and caught by the wind. And, this is the important part, you were talking to yourself. Quite seriously. ‘No, no, that line needs more…’” He mimed the motion of holding a brush, lips twitching. “And then you frowned. It was… remarkable.”
You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or be offended by that particular comment about your hair. “Talking to myself? Is that all it takes to be remarkable?”
He shook his head, amusement in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. You were focused, utterly unconcerned with anyone else. Not a hint of performative concern for the passing Knights, or unsuspecting hilichurl, not a glance at the carriage rattling down the road, not a single thought for me lurking behind the hedge.”
You looked out at the water, considering. “You lurk. So you followed me?”
“Not exactly followed,” he said. “More like… watched from a respectable distance. I wouldn’t want to alarm a painter in the wild. And I may have nearly toppled my horse once trying to see the cliff from a better angle.” He made a face at the memory, like a boy caught misbehaving. “Embarrassing, yes. But instructive.”
“You nearly fell off your horse to watch me paint?” you asked, trying not to laugh.
“Merely leaned precariously,” he corrected, with mock dignity. “But still. It made quite an impression. And then I couldn’t get it out of my mind.”
“Wind in my hair,” you said, repeating it with a grin. “And here I thought I was completely unremarkable.”
He hesitated, then said, “And when I saw you yesterday, I…”
“You what?” you prompted, tilting your head, amused and slightly impatient.
“I almost lingered a moment longer than reason allowed,” he said lightly, letting you guess what he meant.
“Almost?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not entirely?”
“Not entirely,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I didn’t want to seem dramatic. Or… overly attentive.”
“Overly attentive?” you repeated, laughing softly. “That would have been out of character, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” he said, stepping a careful pace closer, though still just outside reach. “I prefer subtlety. Keeping things… interesting.”
“You make it sound like a very strategic pursuit,” you said, flicking a glance at him.
“Strategy is my trade,” he replied lightly, “but some things, some people, aren’t worth strategizing over. Some things just… demand notice.”
You caught the hint, but refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. “I’ll try to behave, then,” you said, “so as not to tempt your attention too much.”
He laughed softly, the sound carrying over the water. “Oh, I think temptation has very little to do with it.”
Your breath caught, just slightly.
The sun was almost gone by the time you reached the far end of the beach; the violet light stretched thin and blue across the water. A line of windmills turned slowly in the distance, their dark shapes steady against the sky.
You stopped near the water’s edge. The lake was smooth, save for the small rings where insects touched its surface.
“You come here often?” he asked.
“Only when I need quiet,” you said. “It’s harder to feel watched here.”
You picked up a small stone and turned it over in your hand. “I’ve never learned how to do it properly.”
“Skip a stone?”
“Yes. Mine always sink immediately. It feels like a personal failing.”
He laughed. “It’s mostly about letting go sooner than feels natural.”
He chose a flat stone, weighed it in his palm, and demonstrated. It skipped once, twice, three times before disappearing.
You tried next. The stone struck the water and vanished without ceremony.
“That one didn’t even try,” you said.
He crouched beside you. “May I?”
You nodded. He guided your hand lightly—not holding, only adjusting the angle. His touch was brief, careful.
“Don’t aim for distance,” he said. “Aim for calm, like this. Watch. See?”
You threw again. The stone skipped twice.
You stared. “I did that.”
“You did,” he said. “It’s usually easier than we expect.”
You walked on.
After a while, you asked, “Do you ever tire of it? Your duties, I mean.”
He considered the question. “I tire of being useful in only one way.”
You glanced at him. “That sounds lonely.”
“It can be,” he admitted. “People see the title before they see the person. It becomes… efficient.”
You watched him as he looked up at the sky. A sad look in his eyes.
He hesitated, then asked, “And you? I’ve seen your work in the gallery. The charcoal pieces.”
You stopped walking. “You have?”
“I have,” he said. “I didn’t know it was yours at first.”
“What made you realize?”
“They’re honest,” he said simply. “Full of life and something else, though, they don’t try to be liked.”
You laughed quietly. “That’s not always intentional.”
“It feels intentional,” he said. “Or at least brave.”
You looked out at the windmills again. “I don’t know how else to draw. If I soften it, it feels untrue.”
He nodded. “That’s how I feel about command.”
You turned to him. “You surprise me. You draw that comparison easily.”
“I think we do the same work,” he said. “We observe. We decide. We live with the consequences.”
The wind picked up, lifting the hem of your dress. He stepped slightly closer, shielding you from it without comment.
Dusk came, the liminal moment in between where sunlight obscured, and darkness reveals, murmurs and suggestions, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy time. Your hands met, and light spilled in a flood like a hundred silver urns pouring out of the stars.
“In all honesty, I expected you to turn back,” he said lightly.
“Hmm, well, I like to test people,” you said, tilting your head to the side. “See if they’re worth the trouble.”
He raised a brow. “I see. I hope I pass.”
“Perhaps,” you said, smirking, “but I make no promises.”
Weeks passed since that afternoon on the cliffs. In town, you and Varka had encountered each other in fleeting, almost incidental moments. Always brief, always just long enough to leave you both lingering on the memory of the encounter.
A note slipped under your door one morning, written in his careful hand:
If you find yourself in the gallery tomorrow afternoon, I will be there, pretending to examine something of little importance. Do not let me catch you staring—though I hope you will.
You had smiled, folding the note with a quiet thrill. And you did go, of course, pretending to study a small landscape you had already seen countless times, all the while knowing exactly where he was in the room. You exchanged no more than a few words that day, comments about brushwork, the light, the subject, but in the pauses between words, you were entirely aware of each other.
Another day, in the market, you caught sight of him walking past a stall, hair tousled by the wind, sleeves rolled back, sword at his hip, giving a quick smile to a merchant. He had not noticed you at first. You froze, a small amusement curling in your chest, until he turned just enough for your eyes to meet, and he raised a single, deliberate brow. That was all, a signal, a recognition, and you smiled to yourself as he moved on.
It was like this for weeks: glimpses, small messages, shared spaces, always intimate in your restraint. Words were few; attention was sharp. It was never overt, never formal, but in every encounter there was a tacit understanding: neither of you was likely to let this connection fade, no matter the propriety, no matter the world around you.
And now, here you were, apart from the ballroom’s light, framed by stone pillars and vines that curled like whispered secrets, with only the silent gods to witness.
You stepped closer, the sound of your skirts brushing against the stone floor almost louder than the distant strains of music from the ballroom. He moved just enough to make space, and the air between you felt deliberately small.
A stray vine had fallen from the pillars, its curling leaves brushing your sleeve. Without thinking, you reached to tuck it aside, and his hand brushed yours. Light, careful, almost accidental, but enough to send a small spark of awareness along your arm.
He chuckled softly. “You still manage to attract every inconvenient obstacle,” he said, leaning just slightly so his shoulder nearly touched yours. “The garden seems determined to interfere.”
“I’m perfectly capable of handling obstacles,” you replied, letting your hand linger near his for a second longer than necessary. “Although... maybe some require… assistance.”
He tilted his head, as if weighing whether to take your words seriously, and then reached a hand up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. The motion was casual, practiced, but the warmth of his fingers against your cheek made the night feel narrower, smaller, as if the stone pillars and twisting vines had receded.
A small flower had fallen at your feet. He picked it up and, without speaking, rolled it between his fingers. Lavender.
“Here,” he said, offering it to you. You accepted it, laughing softly, the sound almost swallowed by the faint rustle of the garden around you.
“You really make everything a game,” you murmured.
“Only when it matters,” he replied, leaning just slightly closer so you could hear him above the night’s quiet, the distant echo of bells, the muffled violins and laughter, the wind sifting through the leaves.
The two of you stood there, inching toward each other in ways neither of you would call deliberate, exchanging glances, smiles, and the occasional playful touch. A hand resting briefly on the railing near yours, a lean to catch a whispered observation, a shared chuckle over something only the two of you noticed.
He took your right hand into his, suddenly.
“Should we dance?”
“Here?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, a small laugh escaping you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Exactly there,” he said, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Far from everyone. No one to watch. No orchestra, no rules. You know how much I hate rules.”
You hesitated, pretending to consider it, letting the cool stone floor and the fragrant scent of climbing flora fill the pause. “I must say,” you said finally, a teasing glint in your eyes, “it’s audacious. And terribly unconventional. For a Grand Master to hate rules. Someone should scold you for that.”
He shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “I have been known to bend the rules on occasion. Though I assure you, if anyone were to scold me, I’d hope it would be you.”
You giggled. “Very well, then. I suppose I’ll indulge you.”
He guided you a half-step closer, your hands clasped lightly. “I promise to step carefully,” he said, with mock solemnity, “though I make no promises about spinning you into a fit of laughter.”
The two of you moved, awkwardly at first, your shoes brushing the stone, his coat catching the moonlight.
'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,
“You don’t seem to mind the stones beneath our feet,” he murmured, tilting his head so that you could hear him better. “Or the uneven ground.”
“I’ve walked cliffs and beaches,” you said lightly, “I think I can manage a garden floor.”
He laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “Good. I would hate to think I might injure such a remarkable dancer before the first song even begins.”
“You flatter me,” you said, letting your hand rest lightly on his shoulder for balance, leaning just enough to brush against him, “but I suspect your dancing skills are as… precise as your stone-skipping.”
“Perhaps,” he said, leaning closer so that your laughter brushed against his ear. “But some things are far more enjoyable when they require… improvisation.”
Then suddenly, you let go of his hand and stepped lightly into the grass, the dew brushing cool against your ankles. With a quick laugh, you bent to slip your heels off, tossing them carelessly to the side as if they were a burden you had long awaited to shed.
“What—what are you doing?” he stammered, a faint flush creeping to his cheeks.
“Dancing,” you said, grinning, your bare toes sinking into the soft earth. “Like you said. Improvisation. No rules, no ballroom, no staring eyes. C’mon!”
He blinked at you, caught between astonishment and amusement, before shaking his head slowly. “You’re outlandish,” he said, with a visible smile.
“And yet, here you are,” you replied, stepping closer, “burdening yourself with me. Surely that counts for something.”
He laughed again, the sound low and warm in his chest, and let go of the railing, drawing you gently back toward him. “Indeed. It counts for quite a lot, actually.”
You twirled once, letting your skirts flare around your knees, the soft rustle of leaves and the moonlight wrapping around you. He caught your hand again, guiding you into a slow, careful rhythm as your bare feet pressed into the grass.
“Why barefoot?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice, though his eyes lingered on yours.
“Because,” you said lightly, letting your hair tumble forward and catching his gaze, “sometimes you just have to feel the ground beneath you. Otherwise, dancing is only half alive.”
He tilted his head, studying you for a long moment, then finally allowed himself to lean closer. “I see. That explains a great deal about you, actually.”
“And you?” you asked, stepping lightly in a small circle, letting your fingers brush his. “Do you dance barefoot often, Grand Master?”
He smiled, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Only under very specific conditions. Moonlight, grass, someone dangerously clever leading the way…”
You giggled, a soft, bright sound that seemed to ripple through the garden. “Well, I do try to keep things interesting.”
And when he looked at you again, it was as if all light rushed through him. He drew you very tenderly close. His lips brushed against your ear.
“You smell like something… unexpected,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing yet oddly reverent. “Like summer and rain, and… mischief.”
You shivered, from the closeness, from the wine, from the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Mischief, am I?” you whispered back, tilting your head so your hair touched his cheek.
“Yes,” he said, pulling back just slightly to meet your eyes. “Absolutely. And very, very dangerous.”
His eyes flickered down to your lips, and he leaned in, and when you kissed, your lips met like starved hearts.
Unbeknownst to you both, a shadowy figure sat perched on the roof, his hat and lyre sat aloof. And in the little book he wrote, of all the things in love and longing that troubled him most…
The young Master kissed her in the garden,
When the moon was shining bright
But she was a marble statue, and
He was drunk that night.
— kisses to the lovely wonderful readers who enjoyed letters and lavender. this one is for you. please let me know if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <33
SYNOPSIS: For years, you lived in the shadow of one name: Alhaitham. No matter how hard you studied or how close you came, he always remained just out of reach. But as the Akademiya's examinations draw near and the pressure begins to mount, something starts to change. Will you finally surpass the rival you have chased for so long? Or will you discover that there is more waiting for you beyond first place?
TAGS: ALHAITHAM X READER...ish?, ONESHOT, comfort, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, burn out reader, written in reader's POV, second POV, use of Y/N twice, one-sided rivalry, inaccurate system of the Akademiya?
WC: 14.5k
A/N: there's no outright romance between reader and alhaitham in this fic, but their interactions are admittedly very cute, and there are several moments where your heart is hammering and your face is suspiciously warm.... feel free to interpret their relationship however you'd like—platonic, romantic or somewhere in between! i personally wrote it with romantic lens :)
thank you @ikeepforgettingmyacc for beta reading,
this has been in my drafts for over a year and only found the time to finish it now huhu, so please enjoy ♡
There had been a time when failure was a concept reserved for others—a distant storm seen on the horizon, but never one that drenched your own skin.
Intelligence and success was as natural as the comforting swish of the rivers that cradled your village, tucked far from Sumeru City. Your home was a place of endless green fields and golden afternoons, a sanctuary where life moved at the pace of a slow drifting cloud.
In a village where news traveled faster than the merchants' caravans, your mind became the local legend.
By the age of eight, the local instructors had run out of wisdom to offer you. You had swallowed their lessons whole, leaving them with nothing but your questions.
By ten, the passing travelers with dust on their boots and ink on their fingers would pause in their journeys just to witness the child who spoke in the cadence of a sage.
By twelve, you were the child the villagers pointed to with a mixture of pride and reverence.
"This is the one" they would whisper, their voices thick with a communal hope. "The future of the Akademiya. The brightest spark our soil has ever produced."
At first, the attention felt like a heavy cloak, too warm for a child to wear. You would duck your head, your gaze falling to the grass, wishing to be just another child in the fields. But as the years bled into one another, the cloak became your skin. The expectation of greatness ceased to be a burden and became your baseline.
You still remembered the evening the old researcher visited.
The air had been thick with the scent of jasmine and the low hum of summer insects. Over a modest dinner, the man had leaned forward, his eyes bright with the fervor of a man who had seen the world's wonders.
"You must send them to the Akademiya," he had urged, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
Your mother’s laugh had been soft, tinged with the bittersweet reality of the village. "As if we could afford to pluck such a rare flower from its roots."
The researcher had shook his head, undeterred. "If they continue to study with such ferocity, the Akademiya will find its own way to pluck them."
You had sat there, feigning interest in your meal, but your heart had been racing. The moment the guest departed, the dam broke. A hundred questions spilled from you, frantic and hungry: What are the libraries like? Is the air truly thick with the scent of old parchment? How many minds gather under the Great Tree? Is it true that the very foundations of Teyvat’s wisdom are laid there?
Your father had eventually laughed, a warm, grounding sound, and sent you outside to let the fever of your curiosity cool.
That night, you sat beneath a canopy of stars that felt close enough to touch. You watched the constellations and saw patterns—equations, and possibilities. You imagined yourself walking through halls of marble and vine, your footsteps echoing against the weight of centuries of thought.
For years, that dream was your North Star.
Every book devoured, every sleepless night spent under the dim glow of a candle, every ounce of your fragile energy poured into study. It was all a pilgrimage toward a single destination.
The Akademiya.
When you finally arrived, the sheer scale of Sumeru City felt like a physical blow to the chest. The architecture was a breathtaking. A marriage of nature and intellect—massive, ancient trees intertwined with soaring stone structures, creating a labyrinth of shade and light. Scholars hurried through the streets, their debates flowing as naturally as the wind through the leaves.
It was a symphony of thought, and you were ready to join the orchestra.
You entered the examination halls, not with the trembling hands of a student, but with the quiet certainty of a scholar. You weren't arrogant—arrogance required a sense of superiority. You were simply certain.
Hours later, you emerged into the sunlight, your mind buzzing with the satisfaction of a task completed perfectly. You had performed well. No... you had performed flawlessly.
Three days later, the rankings were posted.
A sea of students surged toward the board, a cacophony of nervous whispers and frantic shuffling. You moved through the crowd with a calm grace, your eyes searching the parchment for your name.
You found it.
Second.
The world seemed to tilt. The warmth of the sun felt suddenly cold against your skin. You blinked, certain the ink had betrayed you, and looked again.
Second.
The name etched above yours was a stranger's name. Alhaitham.
The margin between your brilliance and his was a mere ghost of a margin less than a single percentage point.
It was absurd.
For a long moment, you simply stared at the ink, the silence in your mind deafening. Then, a small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but one of sheer, bewildered irony.
Second place? you thought, a spark of quiet defiance lighting in your chest. Fine. Let him have this one. I will take the first during the next assessment. It is a simple matter of effort.
You walked away from the board, already calculating your next move, already planning your ascent. It was a simple plan.
Except, the next assessment came and the world refused to bend to your will.
And Alhaitham remained first.
Then another.
Then another.
The cycle became a rhythmic, cruel heartbeat that pulsed through the halls of the Akademiya. Weeks bled into months; months stretched into years, and the seasons of Sumeru the heavy rains and the stifling humidity seemed to pass in a blur of ink and parchment.
Every single ranking ended with the same devastating cadence.
Alhaitham.
Then you.
The gap between your scores was never a chasm rather it was a thin, razor sharp line that sliced through your confidence.
It never widened, and it never vanished.
It served as a silent, mocking reminder that no matter how much of your soul you poured into your studies, someone else was always standing exactly one step ahead.
But the sting of the rank wasn't what truly wounded you. It was his indifference.
Most scholars at the Akademiya wore their intellect like a mantle of gold. They craved the prestige; they hungered for the validation of their peers and the nods of their professors. They lived for the competition. But Alhaitham? Alhaitham treated brilliance as if it were a mere chore, a mundane necessity of life.
He attended lectures with a detached, surgical precision. He completed assignments with a terrifying efficiency. He read, he learned, and then as if he were simply finished with the world for the day he would vanish. He would slip away before the accolades could be handed out, leaving the air empty where his presence had been.
You would see him in the periphery of your vision: a quiet figure tucked beneath the shade of a tree between classes, or a silhouette buried deep within the shelves of the House of Daena. When a professor offered him praise, he didn't beam or bow; he merely looked vaguely inconvenienced, as if the compliment were a gust of wind that had slightly disturbed his reading.
You hated that.
You hated the effortless grace of his intellect. You hated the way he seemed to inhabit a world where the struggle for excellence didn't even exist. Most of all, you hated the way you had become a satellite orbiting his sun, your entire sense of self defined by the distance between your name and his.
The rivalry was a ghost—a phantom battle fought entirely within the quiet chambers of your own mind. To the rest of the world, you were a brilliant scholar; to yourself, you were a perpetual runner up.
By the time the next major examination approached, the obsession had grown teeth. It had become something jagged and ugly.
Your dormitory had become a sanctuary of madness.
Every inch of desk and wall was smothered in notes, diagrams, and scribbled theories. You studied through the haze of your meals; you studied the rhythmic sway of the trees as you walked; you studied in the liminal spaces between waking and sleep.
Friends’ invitations grew infrequent, their voices fading into the background as you declined one gathering after another. Professors began to look at you with growing concern, their voices softening as they asked if you were sleeping enough, if your health was holding.
You would offer them a calm, practiced smile. "Yes, of course. I am resting well"
The truth was far more exhausting.
The truth was that you were tired of the silver medal. You were tired of being the shadow. And this time, you were prepared to burn yourself to ash if it meant finally eclipsing him.
That desperate determination was what led you to the House of Daena long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the bustling crowds had retreated to their homes.
The Great Library was a cathedral of silence, lit only by the soft, amber glow of lamps that cast long, dancing shadows against the endless rows of books.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dried ink.
You sat hunched over a heavy tome, your eyes stinging, your fingers trembling slightly from fatigue. The world outside Sumeru City had drifted into a peaceful slumber, but your mind was a storm of equations and logic.
Hours bled into one another, marked only by the turning of pages and the scratch of your quill. You were so deeply submerged in the sea of knowledge that you almost didn't hear the shift in the air the subtle change in the library's quiet rhythm.
Then, a soft, deliberate tap landed against your shoulder.
Your heart gave a sudden, violent leap. You turned, your breath catching in your throat, expecting a librarian or a weary fellow student.
Instead, you found yourself staring into the calm, unreadable eyes of Alhaitham.
He was standing there, looking as though he had simply stepped out of a dream, his presence as cool and steady as the moonlight filtering through the high windows.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn't the heavy, awkward kind one might expect from two rivals, nor was it the comfortable quiet of friends. It was something sharper.
His gaze didn't land on your face first; it traveled.
It swept over the dark, bruised crescents beneath your eyes, the untouched tray of food sitting cold beside your notes, and the frantic, cluttered mountain of texts that seemed to be slowly swallowing you whole. His eyes lingered on your hand the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly as they gripped your quill, stained with ink and fatigue. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. It was the look of a scholar identifying a variable that had gone rogue.
"You haven't gone back to your dormitory," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with that infuriatingly calm cadence of his.
You were the first to break the contact, looking away toward the endless shelves of the House of Daena. "I'm fine."
"You said that the last time."
"There wasn't a last time."
"There were three."
Your shoulders stiffened, a small, defensive jerk of your spine. Alhaitham sighed a soft, exhaled sound that was nearly lost beneath the distant, rhythmic rustle of the rainforest leaves outside the high windows. Without asking permission, he pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down.
The movement was startling.
In the hierarchy of the Akademiya, Alhaitham was an island. He didn't seek company—he didn't even seem to tolerate it. Yet here he was, settling into the seat as though he had every intention of staying until the candles burned to nothing.
Under the warm, flickering light of the desk lamp, the sharp edges of his rivalry seemed to soften. Without the frantic energy of the student body around him, he looked... human. Just another scholar, weary and caught in the gravity of the night. The realization irritated you. It was much easier to hate him when he felt like an unreachable monument of intellect.
"Why are you here?" you asked, your voice sounding thinner than you intended.
"I came to return a book." His gaze flickered toward the chaotic sea of parchment surrounding you. "Then I discovered a more immediate problem."
You rolled your eyes, a weary gesture of defiance. "I'm not a problem."
"At the moment, you are."
"How flattering."
"You mistake observation for insult."
"Because your observations usually sound like insults."
"They only sound that way because you dislike the conclusions."
You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him that his conclusions were nothing but arrogance wrapped in logic, but the words died in your throat.
He was right.
That was the most maddening part of Alhaitham: he was almost always right.
He leaned back, the chair creaking softly under his weight. "You've been avoiding meals."
You blinked, the fog in your brain momentarily clearing. "What?"
"Your lunch yesterday remained untouched."
Your stomach gave a traitorous, hollow ache. "You noticed that?"
"You sit three rows away from me."
"That doesn't answer the question," you muttered, feeling a flush of heat rise to your pale cheeks.
"It answers it sufficiently."
You stared at him, searching for a hint of mockery, a sign that he was teasing you. But there was none. Alhaitham simply accepted facts as they existed, as if observing your deteriorating health was no different than noting the humidity in the air.
"You also left a lecture early this morning," he continued, relentless.
Your frown deepened. "I had studying to do."
"You nearly walked into a pillar."
"..."
"And your handwriting has noticeably deteriorated."
"..."
"Your notes from two weeks ago were significantly more legible."
You felt a sudden, frantic prickle of vulnerability. "Have you been... analyzing my notes?"
"I've debated with you enough times to recognize your handwriting."
A groan escaped you, and you let your forehead drop onto the cool surface of the desk, the wood smelling of cedar and old ink. "Please," you whispered into the paper, "just stop noticing things."
"No."
The answer was instantaneous. No hesitation, no softening of the blow. You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "Why?"
For the first time, Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled. He tilted his head slightly, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because they're there."
It was such a quintessentially Alhaitham response that you almost laughed a dry, tired sound. The exhaustion was winning; the room felt heavy, the air thick and warm, and your eyes burned with every blink. You hated that he could see the cracks in your porcelain composure. You hated that he was right.
His gaze softened, a change so subtle it was almost a trick of the light. "Rest," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its analytical edge and becoming something firm, grounded, and strangely certain. "It's the only logical thing to do."
"I don't have time," you countered, though your eyelids felt like lead.
"You do."
"I really don't."
"You do."
"The examinations are next week!" you hissed, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim your dignity.
"Precisely."
You blinked at him, bewildered. "That doesn't even make sense."
"It does." Alhaitham folded his arms, his expression turning clinical once more. "Your current condition is reducing both retention and comprehension. Continuing to study while exhausted produces diminishing returns."
You closed your eyes, realizing you had walked straight into his trap. "You're treating yourself like a machine," he continued.
"A machine?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
"An inefficient one."
"Oh, thank you."
"Not a compliment."
You buried your face in your hands, the weight of the world feeling as heavy as the books on your desk. Somewhere above the sound of your own frustrated breathing, Alhaitham let out a long, weary sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly gentle, carrying a hint of something that sounded almost like... exasperation.
"Archons."
You glanced up, startled. The word sounded so foreign, so uncharacteristic of the man who usually spoke in perfect, measured sentences. It was the first time he had sounded like a person instead of a scholar.
"What?" you whispered.
"You are a most difficult variable to solve," he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
"Mental health should always be prioritized," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the vast silence of the library. "Regardless of circumstance."
The sheer sincerity of the statement struck you like a physical force. The towering shelves of books faded into the periphery, the shadows in the corners of the room deepened into velvet, and the vast, hollow space of the library vanished, leaving only the narrow, electric distance between the two of you.
"You've pushed yourself well beyond your limits." His eyes drifted, a fleeting moment of observation as they swept over the scattered parchments and the ink stained edges of your sleeves, before snapping back to your face. "Take a break."
A sudden, sharp tightness bloomed in your chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath. You searched his face for the tell tale signs of a victor, the subtle curl of a lip, the glint of superiority, the quiet satisfaction of seeing a rival falter. But there was nothing.
A part of you wanted to snap at him, to wrap yourself in your pride and push him away. But another part the part that was tired of fighting the world alone ached to ask the question that had been festering in your mind for years.
"Why does it matter to you?"
The question hung in the air, fragile and trembling.
For the first time that evening, the man of endless logic fell silent.
The only sound was the distant, rhythmic sigh of the wind brushing against the high glass windows and the soft, ghostly flicker of the lamp. Alhaitham’s gaze shifted, his eyes clouding with a rare, contemplative depth, as if he were weighing the exact value of the truth before deciding whether to bestow it upon you.
Moonlight spilled across the mahogany table in long, silver ribbons, illuminating the dust motes dancing between you. After a silence so long it felt eternal, he finally spoke.
"Because despite what you seem to believe, I've never considered you an obstacle."
Your breath hitched, snagging in your throat. Before you could find the strength to protest, he continued, his voice cutting through the stillness. "You're one of the few people in this Darshan capable of challenging my conclusions."
His expression remained as composed as a statue’s, yet there was an undeniable, raw honesty beneath the surface, a vulnerability in his steadiness that made it nearly impossible to look away.
"Our debates are interesting," he added.
You blinked, stunned. Interesting? Was that all? After years of rivalry, after the sleepless nights and the crushing weight of second place, he chose the word interesting? It felt almost insulting in its understatement, yet as you looked at him, you saw he was entirely, devastatingly serious.
"Most discussions become predictable after a few minutes," he said, a pause stretching between his words like a taut wire. "Yours don't."
"You assume I've enjoyed outperforming you." His gaze lowered, drifting to the mountains of books and the evidence of your relentless, desperate struggle to catch him. "That assumption is incorrect."
The lamp flickered, a dying pulse of amber light, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended in time. Then, almost as if the words cost him something to say, Alhaitham added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "If anything, I've been waiting for the day you finally surpass me."
The words landed with more impact than any grand proclamation, more weight than any official ranking ever could. In the quiet sanctity of the library, the truth finally dawned on you. You had spent years treating Alhaitham as the finish line, a distant, cold destination to be conquered. You never realized that he hadn't been standing in your way; he had been standing there, quietly watching, waiting for you to finally catch up.
"You're a fool," you whispered, though the sting was gone from your voice. It was a soft, breathless thing, almost a laugh. "To wait for someone to surpass you... it goes against every instinct of a scholar."
"Logic is rarely driven by instinct," Alhaitham replied, his gaze returning to yours. The intensity hadn't faded, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. "It is driven by the pursuit of excellence. And a pursuit is only meaningful when the opposition is worthy."
You looked down at your hands. They were still trembling. The frantic, desperate energy that had driven you for months, the need to prove, the need to win seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a quiet, hollowed out peace.
He reached out, his hand hovering over the table for a fraction of a second before he pulled a small, wrapped parcel from the pocket of his robe. He set it beside your inkwell. "Eat. Then go back to your dormitory. If you collapse during the examination, the lack of a proper challenger will be a significant inconvenience to the Akademiya."
You looked down at the parcel warmth still seemed to radiate from it and then back at him. The fierce, burning rivalry that had defined your existence was still there, but the edges had softened.
As he walked away, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, you didn't immediately reach for your quill. Instead, you unwrapped the parcel, the scent of warm bread and honey filling your senses, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to simply be.
Yet, the week leading up to the examinations was a quiet and difficult revolution
The first battle was against ghosts.
It was not a war fought against the looming expectations, nor against the theories of the Akademiya, nor the impossible, logic defying questions that awaited you.
It was a war fought against yourself.
The old habit was a frantic living thing—a phantom limb. It lurked in the hollows of your thoughts, a restless specter waiting for the slightest lull in your focus to strike. Years of relentless conditioning did not dissolve overnight simply because one infuriatingly perceptive scholar had commanded you to.
Your body was a vessel of exhaustion—heavy and aching—but your mind was a caged bird, beating its wings against the bar.
You sat along at your desk long after the sun had dipped below the rainforest canopy, leaving you room bathed in the bruised purples and deep indigos of twilight. The familiar collection of books was stacked in a neat, imposing tower within arm’s reach. The mere sight of them made your chest tighten, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.
They were both your sanctuary and your cage.
You stared at the spines of the books. They seemed to stare back, judging your stillness.
A minute passed, heavy and thick as honey.
Then another.
Your fingers began to twitch, a rhythmic, nervous dance against the wood of the desk. Just one chapter, the thought whispered, sliding into your mind with the seamless ease of a predator. One chapter wouldn't hurt. You have the energy. You have the time.
It was a lie you had told yourself a thousand times before. One chapter would inevitably bleed into three; three would stretch into six; six would dissolve into a sleepless, feverish night of frantic memorization. You knew the descent into madness intimately. The temptation settled into your marrow, a cold, creeping itch. Without a conscious thought, your hand began to drift toward the nearest textbook. The movement was instinctive, as automatic and unthinking as a heartbeat.
Halfway there, you froze.
The silence in your room suddenly expanded, becoming enormous and deafening. The tips of your fingers hovered a mere inch above the worn, pebbled leather of a volume on ancient tomes. A sharp, jagged frustration rose in your throat. You realized, with a jolt of unsettling clarity, that you weren't studying because you possessed a hunger for knowledge; you were studying because the vacuum of not studying felt like a physical wound.
Slowly, with a monumental effort of will, you pulled your hand back.
The guilt arrived instantly, crashing into you with the force of a sudden summer storm. It was a physical weight: a tightening in your throat, a sickening knot in your stomach, a dull, thrumming pressure behind your ribs. You should be doing something. Everyone else is out there, chasing the light. The examinations are a tide coming in, and you are standing still, letting the water rise around your ankles.
The thought of Alhaitham struck like a spark in dry tinder. Suddenly, your mind was a gallery of him: Alhaitham seated beneath the dappled shade of a tree, a book balanced effortlessly against his knee; Alhaitham in the hushed sanctity of the House of Daena, his presence a calm anchor in a sea of frantic scholars; Alhaitham, standing atop the rankings, his name a permanent fixture above yours.
Your jaw clenched so hard it ached. You hated this helplessness. You hated the terrifying sensation that to rest was to surrender, and to slow down was to be swallowed by the shadows of those who refused to stop.
Your fingers curled into the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood. But then, amidst the cacophony of your own racing heart, a different memory surface. It was the memory of a pair of steady, turquoise eyes staring directly into your soul across a pool of flickering lamplight.
You could hear his voice with a clarity that was almost maddening. “Rest.”
It had been so simple. So direct. Devoid of the grandiosity most scholars used to mask their intentions. “It’s the only logical thing to do.”
You scowled at the phantom of him. Even in the sanctity of your own mind, Alhaitham was an insufferable presence. Yet, the memory felt more real than the desk beneath your hands. You leaned back, forcing your spine to uncurl, and exhaled a breath you felt you had been holding for years.
The room remained unchanged. The books were still there, silent and demanding. The examinations still loomed like a storm on the horizon. You folded your hands in your lap, forcing them to remain still, a feat that felt as difficult as resisting the pull of gravity.
For a long time, the restlessness crawled beneath your skin like tiny, invisible insects. \
But then, slowly, the world began to bleed back in.
The frantic noise of your thoughts began to recede, replaced by the delicate, rhythmic symphony of the Sumeru night. You heard the distant, melodic chirping of insects in the canopy; the gentle, rhythmic sigh of the wind moving through the leaves outside your window; the faint, earthy scent of rain that still lingered in the humid air.
A shaft of moonlight, pale and ethereal, stretched across your floorboards like a silver ribbon. In its glow, you saw them: tiny particles of dust drifting lazily through the air. They rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic dance, suspended in the light like miniature stars caught in a celestial current.
You watched them. You didn't analyze the composition of the dust. You didn't calculate the velocity of their drift. You didn't ask how this moment could be used to improve your standing in the Akademiya. You simply watched.
One particle spiraled upward, a tiny speck of silver against the dark. Another spun slowly, caught in a microscopic eddy of air, before vanishing into the velvet shadows. The movement was entirely meaningless. It was profoundly unproductive. It served no purpose in the grand architecture of your future.
How long had it been since you had allowed yourself to simply witness the world without trying to conquer it? How long had you been so busy measuring the usefulness of every moment that you had forgotten how to live within them?
The second day brought the first encounter with the "new" you.
Or perhaps not new.
Perhaps simply the version of yourself that had been buried beneath years of pressure.
The Akademiya grounds were unusually tranquil that afternoon. Most students had retreated to the sanctuaries of the libraries or the shaded halls to escape the rising Sumeru heat. This left the grounds to the birds, the wind, and the occasional scholar drifting across the stone pathways. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of broad, emerald leaves, casting a shifting mosaic of gold and deep shadow across the grass.
You had chosen a spot beneath the sprawling roots of the Great Tree, a heavy treatise on linguistics resting in your lap. Normally, this would be a moment of intense, almost frantic focus. You would have been dissecting every sentence, cross referencing the symbols and sentence structure, your mind racing to absorb every scrap of data before the sun dipped below the horizon.
But today, the words blurred at the edges. You read a paragraph on ruin devices, then read it again, and a third time, only to realize you hadn't actually processed a single syllable.
A strange, foreign sensation began to settle in your limbs. It wasn't the bone deep, hollow exhaustion that came from pulling all nighters in the House of Daena. It was something much simpler.
You were sleepy.
The realization sent a small jolt of panic through you. For years, sleepiness had been an enemy to be vanquished. It was a weakness to be suppressed with bitter tea, cold water, and sheer, stubborn willpower. The old reflex surged up in your throat: Stand up. Walk to the library. Find a more upright chair. Keep going. Keep going until the world stops spinning.
Your fingers tightened on the parchment, the edges crinkling under your touch. You felt the familiar, gnawing guilt, the sensation that every second spent in repose was a second Alhaitham was gaining on you. You could almost see him in your mind's eye, sitting perfectly poised, his mind a sharp, unclouded blade, absorbing knowledge with effortless grace while you sat here, succumbing to the most basic of biological needs.
“You’re treating yourself like a machine.”
His voice, calm and infuriatingly logical, echoed in your mind. You closed your eyes tight, scowling at the memory. It was an incredibly annoying thought to have when you were trying to be productive. And yet, as you sat there, the debate raged within you. One side of your mind screamed that a midday nap was a luxury for the lazy; the other side, a quieter, more tired voice, pointed out that you had spent years running a marathon with no finish line in sight.
With a heavy, decisive sigh, you closed the book.
The action felt monumental, as if you were signing a treaty with your own body. A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. Permission to be tired. It felt absurd, yet as you leaned your head back against the rough, cool bark of the tree, a profound sense of relief washed over you.
The world began to soften. The rustle of the leaves became a lullaby; the warmth of the sun on your skin felt like a gentle weight, pressing you down into the earth. You let go.
You were drifting, hovering in that hazy, golden space between wakefulness and dreams, when a shadow fell across your vision, cooling the warmth on your face.
Your eyes fluttered open.
Standing a few paces away was Alhaitham. He was, as usual, a study in composed stillness, a book tucked effortlessly beneath one arm. He didn't call your name or startle you; he simply stood there, observing you with that unreadable, piercing gaze. His eyes drifted from your drowsy expression to the closed book in your lap, and then, quite inexplicably, to the sky.
"The light is changing," he remarked. His voice was steady, cutting through the afternoon haze without breaking the tranquility of the garden.
You blinked, your brain feeling as though it were moving through honey. "What?"
"The light," he repeated, nodding toward the canopy above. "It will become too harsh for reading in approximately twenty minutes. The glare will make the parchment difficult to navigate."
You stared at him, momentarily speechless. Only Alhaitham could turn a moment of quiet vulnerability into a lecture on solar positioning. You waited for the sting, the subtle implication that you were wasting time, or the observation that you looked unkempt in your stupor.
Instead, he simply added, "If you intend to sleep, do it now."
"That's it?" you asked, your voice a bit raspy from sleepiness. "No lecture on the importance of midday alertness? No comment on my lack of discipline?"
One of his eyebrows arched a subtle, elegant movement. "What were you expecting? A dissertation on proper napping techniques?"
A genuine snort escaped you, and you saw the tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was a victory, however small.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward a stone bench a short distance away. He didn't sit near you instead, he chose a spot in the shade that was close enough to be a presence, yet far enough to grant you privacy. He opened his own book, settled in, and became a silent, steady anchor in the garden.
As you drifted back into sleep, you only felt a strange, burgeoning sense of safety.
The third day was when the clarity began to settle. It wasn’t a miraculous transformation; there was no sudden burst of light, no magical curing of years of chronic exhaustion. The anxiety hadn't vanished; it was still there, a low hum in the background of your mind, whispering the old, frantic litany: Study more. Work harder. Don't stop. If you stop, you disappear.
But for the first time, the voice sounded more like a suggestion you were free to ignore.
On this morning, you sat at your desk with a fresh stack of parchment and a cup of tea that was actually warm—rather than the bitter, forgotten sludge you usually favored. You opened your textbook and began to read. You read a section, made a note, and then unexpectedly you paused.
An observation had occurred to you.
You reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write. One theory bled into another; a conclusion linked unexpectedly to a lecture from months ago; an argument that had once felt like a tangled knot of thorns suddenly smoothed out into a straight, logical line.
You stared at the page, then the textbook, then back at the page. The realization was startling. The information wasn't new. You had read these exact passages a dozen times before. The difference was that now, your brain was actually present enough to process them.
For years, you had mistaken the mechanical act of memorization for the art of understanding. When exhaustion had consumed you, studying had been a desperate survival tactic: words entered your eyes, your hand moved across the paper, and you retained just enough to pass the examination before the knowledge evaporated. But now, your thoughts move with a fluid, quiet grace.
The irony was almost enough to make you laugh. In your frantic pursuit of becoming a better scholar, you had nearly forgotten how scholarship actually worked.
By midday, several pages of notes lay spread across your desk. They were, quite frankly, a revelation. Your previous notes had always been a frantic map of a collapsing margins crowded with panicked scribbles, entire paragraphs crossed out in jagged, angry lines, a visual representation of a natural disaster.
Today’s pages were different.
They were…. clean and organized.
The ideas flowed with a logical progression, the connections highlighted rather than buried under the weight of stress.
A small, triumphant smile tugged at your lips. Perhaps Alhaitham knew exactly how irritating this realization would be, you thought. And perhaps that is all the motivation I need to surpass him.
That thought followed you as you made your way toward the House of Daena later that afternoon. The library was bathed in the golden, heavy light of the descending sun, dust motes dancing in the long shafts of brilliance like tiny, suspended stars. A week ago, your instinct would have been to find the darkest, most isolated corner, a place to hide your exhaustion.
Today, you did something entirely uncharacteristic.
You chose a table near one of the large, towering windows. You sat where the light was warmest, where the hum of other scholars felt like a gentle backdrop rather than a distracting cacophony.
You had returned your attention to your notes when a familiar, low voice drifted through the air. It wasn't directed at you, but at a passing scholar. You glanced up instinctively.
Alhaitham.
He was standing a few rows away, his expression as composed and unreadable as ever. He was engaged in a brief, clipped exchange with a senior researcher, his tone efficient and devoid of unnecessary fluff. As the conversation ended, he turned to leave, his gaze sweeping the room with its usual analytical precision.
Then, his eyes caught yours.
He paused.
His gaze lingering on you for a second longer than was strictly necessary. He took in the open book, the neatness of your desk, and the fact that you were sitting in the light rather than the shadows.
"You're sitting in the sun," he remarked as he began to walk toward your section.
"I am," you replied, feeling a strange, playful spark of energy. "Is there a particular reason that's a problem?"
He reached your table, not stopping, but slowing his pace just enough to acknowledge you. He glanced down at your notes, the clean, organized lines of your recent work. "On the contrary. Based on the clarity of your script, it seems to be aiding your cognitive function rather than hindering it."
You blinked, caught off guard by the subtle compliment hidden within his clinical assessment. "Is that your way of saying my notes look better?"
"It's my way of saying you've stopped performing the academic equivalent of a frantic scramble," he said, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something there, not quite a smile, but approval. "It's much more efficient this way."
"Efficiency," you repeated, a soft laugh escaping you. "Always back to the logic of it. Do you ever just... enjoy the sunlight, Alhaitham?"
He paused, his hand resting on the edge of the table. For a moment, the busy library seemed to fade into the background. "I find that enjoying the sunlight is much easier when one isn't squinting through a fog of mental fatigue."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He simply nodded once a silent, dignified farewell and continued on his way toward the deeper stacks. You watched him go, the warmth of the sun on your skin feeling a little more profound, the silence of the library feeling a little more like home. You turned back to your parchment, the ink flowing smoothly, the world feeling, for the first time in a very long time, perfectly in focus.
The fourth day tested your resolve.
The morning had begun with a rare, tranquil grace. You had arrived at the House of Daena shortly after sunrise, when the air still held the silver chill of the night and the grand halls felt less like a labyrinth of expectations and more like a sanctuary. Sunlight poured through the high, arched windows in pale, dusty streams, illuminating the shelves. You had settled into your new seat near a window. Your notes were organized, your tea was warm, and for the first time in years, the act of studying felt more like a genuine conversation with the world.
You were midway through a particularly dense passage on elemental theory when the silence was punctured. A cluster of voices, hushed but vibrating with a frantic, jagged energy.
"...there's no way I'm sleeping this week," a voice whispered, thick with a fatigue that sounded almost permanent.
"I'm serious," another replied, the sound of shuffling parchment punctuating their words. "Have you seen the practice assessments? The complexity has doubled since last year."
"They say the gap between the top ranks is widening," a third student added, their voice dropping to a terrified low. "If you aren't in the top tier by the final exam, you're basically invisible to the Matra."
You watched them from the corner of your eye. They were Spantamad students, their robes slightly rumpled, their eyes rimmed with the tell-tale redness of sleeplessness. One carried a stack of books so precarious it looked like a structural hazard; another looked as though they might collapse into the floorboards at any moment.
"I heard Alhaitham already finished his entire curriculum review," the first one whispered, a note of pure dread in their tone.
A collective groan rippled through the group. "That's not reassuring," one muttered. "When is anything involving Alhaitham actually reassuring?"
"It's just... intimidating," the student with the books sighed.
As they moved past, the air seemed to vibrate with their anxiety, a frantic frequency that usually would have triggered a sympathetic tremor in your own chest. A week ago, hearing the word rankings would have been like a physical blow. You would have felt the familiar, suffocating spiral begin: Am I falling behind? Is my progress too slow?
Instead, you felt a strange, detached sort of pity. You looked down at your own notes… you weren't running a race against them.
"You're staring at the same paragraph for three minutes. Is the text particularly captivating today, or are you merely performing a silent vigil for your lost focus?"
The voice was low, steady, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that had just passed by. You looked up to find Alhaitham standing beside your table. He held a slim volume in one hand, his expression as unreadable as a closed book, but his eyes were fixed on you with a piercing, observant intensity.
"I was actually thinking about the Spantamad students," you admitted, your voice soft. "They seem... overwhelmed."
Alhaitham’s gaze drifted toward the aisle where the group had disappeared. "They are," he said simply. He pulled out the chair opposite yours an uncharacteristic move, as he usually preferred his own solitude and sat down. "They have mistaken anxiety for productivity. They believe that by increasing the volume of their suffering, they will increase the quality of their intellect. It is a common fallacy."
"It's hard not to feel that way when everyone is talking about it," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the library at large. "It feels like if you aren't panicking, you aren't trying hard enough."
Alhaitham leaned back slightly, his turquoise eyes meeting yours. "And what is your definition of 'trying'?"
The question caught you off guard. "To... to master the material. To be prepared."
"To be prepared is to understand the core principles so deeply that the variables of an exam cannot shake you," he countered, his tone clinical yet strangely grounding. "To panic is merely to admit that you are at the mercy of the unknown. You are currently sitting here, in the light, with organized thoughts and a steady hand. By any logical metric, you are 'trying' far more effectively than the group that just passed by."
You looked down at your hands. They were, indeed, steady. "It feels different this time," you whispered, almost to yourself. "It feels like... the knowledge belongs to me, rather than me chasing after the knowledge."
A small, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his expression. It wasn't a smile, but the tension in his brow eased. "That is because you have stopped treating scholarship as a weapon to prove your worth, and started treating it as a tool to expand your mind. The distinction is subtle, but the results are profound."
He reached out, his fingers tapping the edge of your notebook in a rhythmic, calming cadence. "Do not let their turbulence dictate your tempo. A river that flows too violently often loses its direction. A steady current is much harder to divert."
You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, a quiet sense of triumph that had nothing to do with grades. "Thank you, Alhaitham. For... for the perspective."
"Don't thank me. It is merely a logical observation," he replied, though he didn't immediately get up to leave. Instead, he opened his own book, settling into a comfortable silence beside you
The fifth day was a day of quiet preparation.
Not for the examinations.
Not entirely.
The air was thick with the frantic energy of students who had forgotten how to breathe without calculating their progress. They moved in clusters, their voices a low, jagged hum of anxiety, passing around practice assessments like they were sacred, terrifying relics. For years, you would have been part of that hum. You would have been in the library by dawn, eyes stinging from the dim light, your stomach cramping from a diet of half eaten bread and sheer willpower.
But this morning, you stepped beyond the Akademiya grounds.
The Sumeru sun was generous, spilling gold across the stone pathways and warming the skin of your face. The city was a symphony of sensory details you had long ago dismissed as "distractions." There was the heady, sweet perfume of jasmine spilling from window boxes; the earthy, damp scent of the forest floor clinging to the shade of the Great Tree; the rhythmic clack clack of merchants setting up their stalls; and the sound of laughter not the brittle, forced laughter of a student relieved to have passed a quiz, but the deep, resonant sound of people simply being.
You wandered aimlessly, a ghost in a world of color. You eventually found yourself in a bustling café, a place that, a week ago, would have felt like an assault on your senses. It was loud, the clatter of porcelain and the murmur of a dozen conversations swirling around you. But instead of retreating, you ordered a proper meal warm and watched. You watched the server frantically navigate the rows of tables; an elderly scholar sip tea with a slow, meditative grace; you watched two merchants haggle with a theatrical intensity; you watched a group of students laughing so hard they nearly overturned their table.
None of them knew your name. None of them knew your rank. And for the first time, the realization didn't make you feel small
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bruised purples and molten ambers, you found yourself drawn toward the Grand Bazaar. The fountain was a centerpiece of cool, cascading light, its steady song a balm to the lingering hum of the day. And there, leaning against the polished stone of the fountain with a composure that seemed to defy the bustling crowds, was Alhaitham.
He looked as though he had been carved from the very twilight itself. His gaze fixed on the water as if he were reading the ripples. He didn't look up as you approached, but the slight shift in his posture told you he knew exactly who was walking toward him.
"You left the Akademiya," he said as you came to a halt beside him. His voice was a low baritone, cutting through the evening air with its usual, unshakeable steadiness. It sounded almost like an accusation, though there was no bite in it.
You let a soft, wistful smile touch your lips. "It turns out the world is quite large."
"It is a fact, not a discovery," he remarked, finally turning his head to meet your eyes. His turquoise gaze was piercing, scanning your face with that unnerving, analytical precision. He paused, his eyes lingering on the healthy glow of your cheeks. "Though your heart rate seems significantly more regulated than it was yesterday. Your presence is... less frantic."
"Is that a compliment?" you teased, feeling a playful spark of energy. "Or just an observation?"
"In my case, there is rarely a difference," he replied.
A silence settled between you, but it wasn't the heavy, expectant silence of the library. It was light. Easy. You looked at the fountain, then back at him. "You're staying late. Not much studying left to do?"
"The archives are quietest at this hour," he said, though he made no move to pick up his book. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe. When he withdrew his hand, he held something small and vibrant between his fingers. It was a Sumeru Rose, its petals a deep purple, perfectly preserved, as if it had been plucked from a dream. He held it out to you. You blinked, the breath catching in your throat. "What is this?"
"A flower," he said, as if he were presenting a particularly uninteresting piece of logic. You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "Thank you, Alhaitham. I would never have guessed."
You saw it then the tiniest, most infinitesimal flicker of exasperation in the corner of his eye. You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the bloom. The petals felt like silk against your skin. "For your desk," he added, his voice dropping an octave. "To serve as a visual reminder."
"A reminder of what?" you asked softly.
"That even the most complex and rigorous structures require periods of stillness to grow," he said, his gaze drifting toward the darkening horizon. "Constant motion without pause is merely a way to exhaust oneself before the goal is reached."
The words hit you with the force of a physical weight. It was an acknowledgment of the change he had seen in you.
"Thank you," you whispered, and the gratitude felt deep, rooted in something far more profound than academic thanks.
As the evening breeze stirred your hair, a sudden, staggering realization began to dawn on you. You looked at him and really looked at him. You saw the man you had spent years trying to outrun, the rival who had loomed over your every ambition. But as you stared at his composed profile, the memories began to shift. They began to reassemble themselves into a pattern you had been too blinded by competition to see.
You remembered a month ago, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, staring blankly at a plate of untouched food, your mind spinning with equations until the world felt blurred. You had been so lost in your own exhaustion that you hadn't noticed him approaching. He had simply set a small, wrapped parcel of dried fruit on the edge of your table.
"You are consuming more mental energy than glucose," he had said, his voice cool and matter of fact as he walked past. "It is mathematically unsound to study on an empty stomach."
You remembered the long walks between the Grand Bazaar and the Akademiya, where you used to try and sprint to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, your lungs burning and your heart racing in a desperate attempt to match his pace. You had once stumbled, breathless, and he had stopped not to wait, but to subtly slow his gait, his shoulder brushing yours as if by accident.
"The path is not a race, even if you insist on treating it as one," he had remarked, his eyes fixed ahead, though he had stayed at your side until your breathing leveled out.
You remembered the afternoon you had nearly collapsed in the library, your arms trembling under the weight of three massive, ancient tomes. You had turned your head for a mere second to find a reference, and when you turned back, the heaviest book was gone. You had seen Alhaitham walking away toward the returns shelf, the tome tucked effortlessly under his arm.
"You were carrying more than was necessary for your current research," he had called back without looking. "Efficiency is more important than bravado."
And the small things are the quiet moments in the library where you would find a fresh sheet of high quality parchment or a specific vial of indigo ink waiting on your desk, accompanied by no note, but always appearing exactly when your own supplies had run dry.
Your grip tightened around the Sumeru Rose. For years, you had believed you were the one paying attention. You had been the one tracking scores, measuring distances, and watching his every move with the eyes of a rival. But now, the truth was undeniable. While you had been staring at his back, trying desperately to catch him, he had been glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. He hadn't just been observing your progress; He had been watching you. He hadn't been running the same race; he had been standing at the finish line, waiting for you to realize that you didn't need to run so hard to reach him.
Your heart gave a small, rhythmic thud against your ribs not the panicked thud of a student, but the steady, warm pulse of a person who was finally, truly, seeing the world for the first time.
The present rushed back into focus. Heat crept into your face as you looked at him. "You've been watching me."
For perhaps the first time all evening, the unshakeable composure of Alhaitham faltered. It was a microscopic shift, a momentary stillness in his breathing, a slight tightening of his gaze but to you, it was as loud as a shout. He didn't look away, though.
"‘Watching’ is an imprecise term," he countered, though the clinical edge of his voice lacked its usual bite.
You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to dance on the evening breeze. "Of course you'd say that."
"Observation is the basis of all knowledge," he replied, leaning back slightly. "If you intend to truly understand a subject, you must first observe it in its natural state, without the interference of your own biases."
The words were characteristically Alhaitham: logical, measured, and draped in a layer of intellectual detachment. Yet, as they hung in the air between you, they felt devastatingly intimate. Beneath the academic jargon was a truth that made your pulse quicken: he had been studying you.
His gaze drifted downward, settling on the dried Sumeru Rose cradled in your palm. For a long moment, the world seemed to recede. The bustling chatter of the Sumeru plaza, the distant calls of merchants, even the rhythmic splashing of the fountain it all faded into a muted hum, leaving only the two of you in a pocket of sudden, heavy stillness.
"You spent years assuming I viewed you as competition," he said quietly.
The words caught in your throat, stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt an instinctive need to defend yourself, to reclaim the pride you had worn like armor for so long. "I never said that," you countered, though the defense felt thin even to your own ears.
"No," Alhaitham agreed, his voice as steady as the stone beneath your feet. "You simply decided it for both of us."
A sharp retort sat on the tip of your tongue— a witty jab about his arrogance but it died there. It was a realization that stung more than an insult because it was undeniably true. You had built a wall of rivalry to protect yourself, and he had simply walked right through it.
He turned his head, his eyes following the shimmering arc of the fountain’s water. "Most discussions within the Akademiya are predictable," he mused, his tone shifting into that familiar, analytical cadence.
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Predictable?"
"Most scholars are interested in being correct," he said, his gaze remaining fixed on the water. "Very few are interested in understanding why they might be wrong." He paused, and the evening breeze stirred the dark strands of his hair, a rare moment of softness in his rigid silhouette. "You were."
The words landed with a quiet, devastating weight. It wasn't a critique of your intellect, but an observation of your soul.
"You challenged arguments that everyone else accepted as gospel," he continued, his voice low and rhythmic. "You questioned conclusions that professors considered settled. Whenever I thought I had reached the end of a subject, you were there, finding the one thread worth pulling." He paused, and for a fleeting second, he sounded almost reluctant, as if he were admitting a secret he hadn't intended to share. "It was... useful."
A startled, breathless laugh escaped you. "There it is."
He turned his gaze back to you, his expression perfectly, maddeningly serious.”There is what?"
"The Alhaitham version of a compliment," you teased, though your heart was racing. "The highest praise a man of logic can bestow."
"It wasn't intended as a compliment," he corrected, though his eyes narrowed slightly, a tell-tale sign that he was aware of the effect he was having on you.
You smiled, leaning into the warmth of the moment. For once, you didn't feel the need to win the argument. You didn't need to be right; you just needed to be heard.
Alhaitham was the first to look away, his gaze drifting back toward the city lights. "When you began treating every conversation as a contest," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, "I assumed it was a temporary phase. A symptom of ambition."
The warmth in your chest faltered, replaced by a sudden, sharp ache. "But it wasn't."
"You stopped arguing because you enjoyed the learning," he said, his words precise, surgical, cutting through your defenses with terrifying ease. "Instead, you started arguing because you were trying to prove something. You were trying to bridge a gap that didn't actually exist."
Silence settled between you, heavy and profound. He was right. Again. It was exhausting, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it: the comfort of being truly known.
"You kept trying to become someone else," he said, his voice barely a whisper now, stripped of its usual academic armor. "And frankly... It was disappointing."
The word hit you like a physical blow. "Disappointing?" you breathed, staring at him in disbelief.
For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. A flash of something raw, something almost vulnerable, crossed his features a shadow of regret, or perhaps a longing he couldn't quite name. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual composure, but the impact remained.
"The person you already were," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the world stand still, "was far more interesting."
A profound silence fell over the plaza. You looked down at the flower in your hand. Its petals were fragile, yet it had been preserved with such care that it remained whole. A week ago, you might have seen only a withered plant. Now, you saw the intent behind it.
A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips, born of a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.
Alhaitham noticed immediately. He always did. "And what conclusion have you arrived at?" he asked, his eyes searching yours with an uncharacteristic hint of curiosity.
You closed your fingers carefully around the rose, shielding the delicate petals. The answer sat warmly in your chest, a realization so new and so personal that to speak it aloud felt like it might break the spell.
"It's a secret," you whispered.
A pause followed. Then, Alhaitham let out a long, slow sigh. It wasn't the sigh of an irritated man, but one of quiet resignation, as if he had predicted this exact moment of sentimental defiance.
"You realize," he said, his tone dry but fond, "that withholding information from a scholar is exceptionally cruel."
You laughed again, the sound light and free. "Consider it repayment."
"For what?"
"For making me figure it out all by myself," you teased, your rose colored eyes bright with a newfound clarity.
The corner of his mouth lifted. It was a tiny movement, a mere ghost of a smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, but this time, you didn't let it escape you. You caught it, held it in your memory, and realized that in the quiet language of glances and dried flowers, you had finally learned how to read him.
Alhaitham didn't answer immediately. He pushed himself away from the polished stone, straightening with unhurried ease. "The light will be optimal for reading in the west wing of the Akademiya in about an hour," he said calmly. "If you're still free by then, you may join me."
The final day the eve of the examinations arrived with a strange slice.
It was a quiet that existed only within you, because the Akademiya itself was anything but still. Anxious energy clung to every hallway and lecture chamber like a thick, humid mist. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and the frantic, ozone-like tang of desperation. Students rushed between classes, their footsteps a staccato rhythm of panic, clutching stacks of notes to their chests as if the paper itself could shield them from failure. Study groups occupied every available surface; frantic, hushed whispers followed you through the corridors like the buzzing of insects. You passed a student in the hall, eyes bloodshot and trembling, desperately trying to cram three months of botanical theory into a single afternoon. Another sat on a stone bench, staring blankly at the sky, looking moments away from praying directly to the Dendro Archon for a miracle.
The atmosphere was so saturated with tension that it felt tangible, a pressure against your skin. A week ago, you would have been a part of that frantic tide. You would have been the one carrying twice as many books as necessary, your shoulders aching under the weight of unnecessary preparation. You would have skipped lunch to shave ten minutes off a review session; you would have skipped dinner to chase a fleeting thought; you would have sacrificed sleep to the altar of "just one more hour." You would have convinced yourself that a single, extra moment of cramming could be the difference between existence and insignificance.
But now, as you navigated the crowded halls, the desperation felt oddly distant. It was as if you were watching a storm from behind a thick pane of glass. You could see the lightning, you could hear the thunder, but you were no longer being drenched by the rain.
It wasn't that you didn't care.
The examinations still mattered; you had poured your soul into your studies, and you wanted the results to reflect that. But the fear had loosened its grip, transforming from a suffocating shroud into something smaller, something manageable. It was no longer a monster waiting to consume you whole; it was merely a quiet companion, a reminder of the stakes, but one that no longer dictated your every breath.
When night finally settled over Sumeru, you found yourself sitting by the open window of your room. The rainforest stretched endlessly beyond the city walls, a vast, breathing ocean of dark green bathed in the ethereal silver of the moonlight. The sounds of the night drifted inward through the cool air, the rhythmic, distant chirping of insects, the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle murmur of the wind moving through the canopy. You rested your arms on the windowsill, watching the moon climb its slow, celestial arc.
Behind you, your notes remained untouched on your desk. The sight felt almost absurd, a quiet rebellion against years of habit. For so long, the night before an exam had followed a ritual of madness: panic, review, panic, more review. A desperate, cyclical attempt to memorize information you already knew, as though the sheer volume of data could act as a shield against the unknown.
Tonight, the books remained closed because there was nothing left to prove. The work was done.
Your gaze drifted to the desk. The dried Sumeru Rose rested beside your neatly organized notes, its preserved petals glowing softly under the moonlight. You smiled, thinking of how different that desk had looked a week ago. It had been a battlefield of half finished notes, spilled ink, and cold, forgotten tea. Now, it simply looked like a desk.
And as you looked at the flower, your thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did, to him.
Alhaitham.
The name no longer stirred that sharp, jagged tension in your chest. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt like sunlight on skin. You found yourself remembering the small, quiet things: the way he had handed you a parcel of bread and honey when he noticed your hands shaking; the stillness of a bench beneath a tree; the silent, knowing nod in the library; the ghost of a smile by the fountain. These weren't just moments; they were proof. Proof that someone had seen you long before you had learned how to see yourself.
For years, you had treated your rivalry with him as the defining epic of your life—the impossible mountain you had to climb, the finish line you had to cross. You had lived in the shadow of his intellect, constantly measuring your worth by how close you could stand to his light.
And then, the thought arrived the one that had been hovering at the edge of your mind all evening.
What if tomorrow comes, and the rankings are released, and he is first... and I am second?
In the past, that thought would have been a catastrophe. It would have felt like a personal failure, a sign that you were still "lesser," still chasing a shadow you could never catch. You would have felt the sting of being the runner up, the child who was talented but never quite enough.
But as you sat in the moonlight, the thought felt different. If you were second, you would still be you.
You would still be the person who loved the intricacies of ancient philosophy. You would still be the person who found beauty in the way the light hit the rainforest leaves. Being second wouldn't erase the hours of study, the growth of your mind, or the strength of your spirit. The ranking was a number on a parchment; it wasn't the sum of your soul.
For the first time, you realized that the competition had never been about beating him. It had been about finding yourself. And in the process of chasing his excellence, you had discovered your own.
You liked the person you had become in the pursuit. You liked your curiosity, your stubbornness, and your resilience. You liked that you were no longer just a collection of scores and achievements. You were a person of depth, of passion, and of quiet, steady strength.
The examinations would come tomorrow.
The results would be posted.
But as you watched the moon, you knew that no matter what name was written on that list, you had already won. And for the first time, the view was beautiful.
The examinations came, as they always did, a whirlwind of ink, parchment, and grueling mental exertion. Hundreds of scholars sat hunched over their desks, their shadows stretching long and thin as the sunlight crawled sluggishly across the stone floors. The air was thick with the palpable tension of a thousand minds straining against the limits of their own understanding. Questions demanded more than just rote memorization. They demanded the soul of a scholar: theories, intricate formulas, subtle interpretations, and the courage to build an argument from nothing.
The exams were not easier if anything, the complexity of the final papers had been staggering but you met them as yourself. You studied, yes but you studied with a new kind of clarity. You slept when your body demanded it. You ate when the sun was high. You no longer chased him like a shadow.
The difference was nothing short of miraculous. Problems that once felt like impenetrable thickets of logic began to unravel. Connections that used to require hours of agonizing labor emerged with a natural clarity. You realized, with a profound sense of clarity, that a sharp mind required care just as surely as any fine blade required maintenance.
When the final parchment was collected and the last quill was set aside. You felt content.
The results arrived several days later, and as was the tradition of the Akademiya, the institution descended into a beautiful, chaotic madness. Before the sun had even cleared the canopy, students were swarming the central plaza, their voices rising in a cacophony of excitement and dread. Rumors spread through the hallways like wildfire, faster than any official decree.
You watched the commotion from the periphery, leaning against a cool stone pillar. As you moved toward the center, the sea of students parted, though not entirely. Fragments of frantic conversation drifted past you like autumn leaves.
"Did you see the scores? The linguistics section was brutal!"
"The top rankings are absolutely ridiculous this year... "
"How is that even possible? He didn't even look like he was trying!"
"I swear, Alhaitham isn't even human.."
A small, amused huff escaped you. Some things, it seemed, were as constant as the stars.
Finally, you reached the front. The official parchment hung neatly against the wooden board, a stark list of names and numbers that had once dictated your every waking thought. Your eyes traveled upward, almost by instinct, toward the summit of the list.
First: Alhaitham.
The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference. A smile touched your lips not a bitter one, not a wounded one, but something warm and almost fond.
Of course it was him.
You could almost see the slight, satisfied tilt of his head as he read it. You imagined the insufferable, quiet dignity he would maintain, as if being the best in the Akademiya was as mundane as breathing.
Then, your gaze drifted down.
Second: Y/N L/N
The margin between you was almost laughably small. It was a difference measured in whispers, in the tiniest fractions of a point a gap so narrow it was practically a bridge. In the past, seeing this would have been a catastrophe. You would have dissected every missed nuance, every slightly flawed argument, and spent weeks mourning the "what ifs." But now, all you felt was a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride. You weren't just close to him; you were standing right there with him, not as a shadow, but as a peer.
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. It was the sound of someone who had finally realized the race was over, and that the prize was much better than a rank.
"It seems the margin is shrinking."
The voice was low, steady, and vibrated with a familiar resonance that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You didn't need to turn around. Only one person in the entire Akademiya possessed the ability to move through a crowd like a ghost, arriving with such effortless, quiet authority.
Alhaitham stepped up beside you. He didn't look at the board. He didn't look at his own name, which sat at the very top like a crown. His attention was entirely, singularly fixed on you. His gaze was observant, sweeping over your face with that characteristic, analytical intensity, as if he were reading a text more complex than any ancient scroll.
The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference.
As you stepped away from the board, a familiar presence materialized beside you. Alhaitham didn't look at the rankings; he didn't need to. He looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your calm expression and the steady light in your eyes.
"You look well," he noted, his voice as cool and steady as the Sumeru breeze.
The words were simple, stripped of any grandiosity, yet they carried a weight that no "congratulations" ever could. He was seeing the light in your eyes, the lack of tension in your shoulders, the way you finally occupied your own skin without looking for permission. He was saying: You look like you have finally found your way back to yourself.
The smile lingering on your lips widened, bright and teasing. "And you look far too satisfied with yourself," you countered, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Is the view from the top as lonely as they say, or are you just enjoying the ego boost?"
His eyebrow lifted, a subtle, elegant movement that signaled his amusement. "The view is quite standard," he replied, his voice dropping to that private, intimate register. "But the company... the company has become significantly more interesting."
You stared at him, your breath hitching in the small, charged space between you. Alhaitham met your gaze with an expression as unreadable as a closed tome, yet the corner of his mouth twitched a microscopic movement that wasn't quite a smile, but was far too intentional to be mere muscle fatigue.
Around you, the Akademiya was a cacophony of post examination chaos. Students surged around the notice board like frantic waves crashing against a stubborn rock, their voices rising in a fever pitch of jubilant celebrations, bitter complaints, and the frantic scratching of quills as they compared scores. Yet, despite the roar of the crowd, the space beside Alhaitham felt strangely insulated, as if he carried a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the world at bay. Perhaps he always had. Perhaps you were simply the only one who knew how to step inside it.
For years, you had stood before these rankings feeling a crushing sense of vertigo, as if the distance between first and second place was a vast, unbridgeable canyon. But looking at the parchment now, the gap seemed almost laughably small. A mere fraction of a point. A handful of marks a difference so insignificant that a casual observer would have missed it entirely. Your eyes drifted back to the top of the list, tracing the ink.
First: Alhaitham.
Second: Y/N L/N
The sight should have been a familiar ache, a reminder of the summit you couldn't quite reach. Instead, a warmth bloomed in your chest, steady and bright. "You know," you said, your voice thoughtful and surprisingly light, "I used to think seeing your name above mine was the worst thing imaginable."
Alhaitham folded his arms, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "And now?"
You paused, actually considering the weight of the years behind you, the sleepless nights, the frantic studying, the desperate need to be enough. The answer surprised even you. "Now? Now I think there are probably worse things."
"Such as?" he prompted, his tone dry, inviting the challenge.
"Being Kaveh," you countered without a second of hesitation.
The reaction was instantaneous. Alhaitham looked away, but for one glorious, fleeting second, you saw a genuine flash of amusement dance across his features. "You aren't wrong," he conceded. “You aren't wrong," he conceded, his voice carrying a rare note of agreement.
"You said that remarkably fast," you teased, a playful glint in your eyes. "Usually, you'd at least argue."
"Why argue against empirical evidence?" he replied, turning his gaze back to you. "It would be an inefficient use of energy."
A laugh escaped you, a bright, clear sound that seemed to settle the restless air around you. As the sound faded, you noticed Alhaitham relax almost imperceptibly. Most people would have missed the subtle softening of his shoulders, but you had spent years studying not just his intellect, but his silences. You realized then that the rivalry hadn't been a solo performance. You had assumed the fierce, quiet desperation belonged only to you, but looking at him now, you understood. It had mattered to him, too. Not because he craved the vanity of the ranking, but because you had become a constant in his world, the one voice capable of complicating his logic, the one presence that made the silence of his solitude feel less absolute.
"You know," you said, crossing your arms and tilting your chin up with a newfound, gentle defiance, "one day, I am going to beat you."
"I know."
The sheer, unshakeable certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You frowned, searching his teal eyes for even a hint of doubt, a flicker of competitive heat. "You're supposed to disagree! That's how a rivalry works. You're supposed to defend your position."
Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled, as if you had just proposed a mathematically impossible theorem. "That seems counterproductive. If you are destined to surpass me, why waste breath pretending otherwise?"
You threw your hands up in exasperation, though the smile on your face betrayed you. "Archons, you are utterly hopeless. There is no winning an argument with you."
"And yet," he countered, his gaze steady and uncomfortably perceptive, "you have spent years competing with me. One has to wonder if you simply enjoy the pursuit."
He had you there again. You hated how he could turn your own history against you, stripping away your defenses with nothing but a few well placed words. But as you stood there in the sun drenched plaza, you realized he was right. You did enjoy it.
The afternoon sun filtered through the grand, arched windows of the Akademiya, casting long, golden honey streaks across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a group of scholars erupted into a chorus of either triumph or despair, but you didn't care to look. For the first time, you didn't feel trapped by the results.
You glanced one last time at the list. Second place. The position that had haunted your dreams and stolen your sleep, a constant reminder of a summit you could never quite touch. Now, It no longer looked like a mark of inadequacy; it looked like a stepping stone. You were growing, and the distance was shrinking. And certainly, the view was much better when first place was occupied by an insufferable scholar who had recently taken to ensuring you were and subtly reminding you to sleep.
"You're smiling," Alhaitham observed, his voice a low hum, cutting through the ambient nose of the hall.
You immediately scowled, trying to reclaim your dignity with a sharp tilt of your chin. "No, I am not."
"You are."
"I am most certainly not."
"You are."
"Alhaitham"
"Y/N"
The way he mimicked your indignant cadence was so deadpan, so utterly unexpected and devoid of mocking yet brimming with a teasing intent, that you nearly lost your composure again. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained entirely unapologetic, looking as though he had just delivered a flawless lecture. Then, his expression shifted, settling into something purposeful.
"Come." he said.
You blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"
"Lunch."
"I am perfectly capable of buying my own lunch," you countered, though your stomach betrayed you with a small, hungry traitorous twitch.
"I am well aware of your capabilities." he replied, his tone implying that your independence was a fact he respected, but one that was currently irrelevant.
"Then why are you inviting me?"
Without waiting for a formal acceptance, Alhaitham began walking down the grand steps, his stride purposeful. You hesitated for a moment, considering the satisfaction of leaving him to his solitude. Before you could decide, he glanced over his shoulder. It was only a single, brief look, but it was enough to pull you in.
"Besides," he added, his voice carrying back to you over the din of the hall, "if you truly intend to surpass me one day, you will need to remain conscious long enough to actually do it."
For years, you had operated under a fundamental misunderstanding. You had believed your story with Alhaitham was a war of attrition— a relentless, exhausting climb toward a peak defined by numbers, rankings, and the cold prestige of the Akademiya. You thought it was about the singular, desperate need to prove your worth by eclipsing his.
But as you fell into step beside him, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing with his steady, unhurried stride, the truth settled in your heart with a quiet, profound clarity.
The rankings were transient.
They would shift like the desert sands next semester, next year, perhaps not for a decade. Yet, for the first time in your life, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a threat as a warm, lingering thought bloomed in your mind: Second place isn't so bad. Not when first place is walking beside you for lunch.
As the two of you merged into the vibrant flow of students spilling through the walkways, your gaze drifted toward him. You watched the way the sunlight caught the sharp lines of his profile, and you felt a pang of retrospective embarrassment.
How wrong you had been.
For years, you had misread his silence as arrogance. You had mistaken his detachment for a lofty sense of superiority, assuming that the reason he remained unruffled by the chaos of academic competition was that he viewed the world and the people in it as beneath his notice.
You thought he was indifferent to the very things that defined your existence: the struggle, the ambition, the desperate need to be seen.
But the illusion had shattered in quiet spaces between your heated debates, in the hushed hours of late night study sessions, and in the simple, unexpected kindness of a parcel of warm bread wrapped carefully in cloth left on your desk.
Alhaitham had never been indifferent. He simply valued a different currency.
While the rest of the Darshan chased the fleeting glitter of prestige, he chased the deep, resonant marrow of understanding. While others clamored for the roar of recognition, he sought the quietude of peace.
You remembered the lectures the way he would receive the rapturous praise of professors with nothing more than a singular, dismissive nod before returning to his book. You remembered how he would slip away from the celebratory banquets before the toasts even began, seemingly irritated by the way people treated his mind as a monument rather than a tool. You had assumed it was because he felt he was above it all. Now, you realized the truth was much more grounded: he already knew exactly who he was. He didn't need a scroll to validate his existence.
He wasn't ahead of everyone else because he was faster or smarter; he was ahead because while the rest of the world was running a frantic, exhausting race, Alhaitham had quietly, calmly, chosen his own destination.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, born of a sudden, profound affection for the man beside you.
"You've done that three times now."
The voice was low and deadpan, pulling you back to the present. You blinked, realizing Alhaitham was watching you, his gaze fixed on your face with that unnerving focus.
"Done what?" you asked, trying to reclaim your composure, though your heart was still racing from the weight of your own thoughts’
"Smiled at nothing."
"I wasn't smiling at nothing," you countered, though your cheeks felt a faint, roseate warmth creeping into your cheeks.
"Then what were you smiling at?" he prompted, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were attempting to solve a particularly complex equation.
You paused, looking at him.
You looked at the man who had been the center of your frustration, the architect your rivalry, and the catalyst of your growth. The scholar who had become the most vital and unshakeable constant in your life. You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you.
"If I told you,” you said, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “your ego would become truly unbearable."
"I find that unlikely," he replied, his expression remaining perfectly neutral, thoughthere was a tell-tale glimmer of something bright— something warm lingering in his eyes
As you reached the bustling heartof the Grand Bazaar, the smells of spices and street food wafted around you, pulling you back into the noise of the living world. Alhaitham led you away from the main thoroughfare, navigating the crowds with his usual effortless grace, until you reached a small, quiet cafe, tucked away. As you sat down across from him, you felt a final, lingering tension dissolve. The crushing pressure to be perfect—the need to be the singular, untouchable summit had finally lifted.
"I still plan on beating you," you said, leaning back in your chair and watching him with a newfound, calm determination. Your gaze steady and devoid of the old, frantic desperation
Alhaitham opened the menu, his eyes dancing with a rare, subtle spark of challenge. "I look forward to it,” he replied, his voice smooth and unhurried. “But for now," he gestured towards a passing waiter, "I suggest we start with something light. You look as though you might faint if you try to eat a full meal."
You reached across the table and playfully kicked his boot with your own. "I'm fine."
"Of course," he murmured, his gaze meeting yours, his expression softening just enough to betray his amusement. "And I'm convinced you're not. It seems we have reached a stalemate."
"Fine," you conceded, a genuine, melodic laugh bubbling up from your chest. "A stalemate. For now."
The two of you sat in the warmth of the afternoon sun, two rivals who had finally found something more valuable than a perfect score. As the shadows began to lengthen and the city hummed its evening song around you, a profound sense of peace settled over you. You knew that the rankings would continue to change and the seasons would turn; but the person sitting across from you— the man who watched your struggle and waited for you to catch up was the only constant that truly mattered.
all writing belong to @velverii do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.
Okay, so I have a fic idea? This contains spoilers!
It’s a Dottore x Reader story, but Pantalone has secretly been longing for the reader. However, because the reader is with Dottore, he never makes a move or acts on those feelings. But after the recent events, when Dottore dies (I’m still very upset about it), the reader is left feeling heartbroken and devastated. Pantalone becomes the one who comforts them emotionally, helping them through their grief, and over time he slowly starts making moves and letting his feelings show.
I’m a complete sucker for longing and angst, okay? Thinking about things like this and making myself sad is basically my own personal form of torture and drama. 😭
✦ notes ; haii ^^ I saw the new Nod-Krai trailer and noticed Flins… so I decided to write a little drabble! This is my first post, so there might be some mistakes (if I haven’t already missed them TT). I don’t know anything about his actual personality since we haven’t been given much yet.. so I just made this for fun! Honestly, I’m still figuring out scenarios to write him with haha ^^
The air is thick in the graveyard, honestly expected due to how you snook glances at certain places due to being a litttle paranoid.
You sneak a glance at him. He hasn’t said a word in minutes—not that you expected him to. His expression stays unreadable, eyes fixed ahead, as if he’s memorizing each crooked headstone you pass.
“Do you always walk this fast?” you mutter, half-joking, half-breathless from keeping up.
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.
Then, the chill deepens.
A shadow brushes past your cheek. Whispering, You turn around—hands clawing from the fog, eyes hollow. The dead.
Before you can move, before you can scream, the blue glow that came from Flins’ lantern floods your vision.
A barrier appears—soft, but inaccessible. The spirits recoil with a hiss, clawing uselessly against the edge. You stand frozen, staring at them through the glow.
So this is what Flins warned you earlier before joining him in this.. walk.
Flins doesn’t even look at them.
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person,” he says calmly, as if swatting flies. His voice is low, hoarse. Like he doesn’t use it often.
You glance up at him, heart still pounding. He’s already moving forward, lantern in hand, as if nothing happened.
“…Thank you,” you manage.
He pauses—just for a second. And though he says nothing, his lantern dips slightly, casting a gentler light across your face.
A quiet gesture.
Then, with a soft flick of his coat, Flins continues walking. And you follow, a little closer this time.
Another ver of A question for Dottore because I'm curious bc I want it:)
Notes: Reader or Y/n will be replaced by 'Yyn' bc it's more comfortable to say; Dottore x Reader, SFW
Here we go. Dig in, Dottonation.
Cold, rainy days always fill any idle, lingering moments with a hazy, melancholic feeling. Rain in Snezhnaya is even more so.
Outside the exquisite arched window, a curtain of drizzle drifted by, accompanied by cold winds whistling through the crevices of the frame. Inside the room, you curled up in a large armchair placed right by the window, the long, soft hem of your nightgown draping over the edge. On the small tea table nearby, a hot cup of cinnamon tea steamed quietly, using its meager warmth in a desperate attempt to comfort the girl lost in a trance, staring blankly into the void.
Individual raindrops clung to the transparent glass, making the garden - already buried under white fog - look even more blurred. Unconsciously, you watched those water droplets grow denser and intertwine, forming a larger drop that rolled down, dragging smaller ones along its path, tearing through the illusory shroud of mist on the windowpane.
The heat within the teacup was limited. It exhaled its fragrance in a futile, selfish desperation, unable to warm a soul sinking deep into a dreamlike reverie.
Occasionally, the wind howled in sharp, violent gusts. The rustling branches of the birch trees collided with each other, making a harsh, clattering sound. As romantic as the birch trees appeared by day, watching them sway helplessly in the bleak dimness before dawn instilled a profound sense of despair. Even knowing that a warm sun would eventually rise after this darkness, one couldn't help but wonder: in this nation of the Cryo Archon, would the sun truly ever rise?
"Yyn."
A low, deep voice pulled you out of the silence. You startled, slowly turning your head toward the person who had just called your name.
Although the palace corridors always kept their windows tightly shut on cold, gloomy rainy days like today, the sudden opening of your bedroom door allowed damp, stray gusts of wind to slip inside, making you shiver slightly.
The man who stepped in seemed completely soaked in the outside moisture. His Harbinger cloak was darkened by streaks of night frost. His pale blue hair even bore a thin, faint layer of mist. The familiar bird-beak mask concealed his blood-red eyes... He tilted his head slightly, watching you in silence.
You blinked. Ah, right, it was Zandik. No, maybe he should be called Dottore? Or perhaps another segment entirely?
He took off his coat, which was drenched in the biting cold, draped it over the coat rack, and casually brushed back his damp hair before striding toward you.
"Why the blank stare? Our sleeping beauty woke up a whole four hours earlier than usual today." His voice was raspy, perhaps because Snezhnaya's cold spared no one, or perhaps because he had just spent nearly seven sleepless nights in the research lab.
"You're back." You smiled faintly, resting your chin on your hands as they propped against the armrest of the chair. My lover is back. Your eyes had been fixed on him from the very moment he stepped into the room. It was always like this, except today your gaze was bleaker than usual, and you yourself were uncharacteristically quiet.
The brilliant doctor naturally noticed this abnormality. The motion of removing his gloves hitched for a brief second before returning to normal. He picked up his pace toward the armchair, casually placing his mask down beside the cup of tea that had long gone cold.
He sat down heavily next to you, draping his arm over your shoulder in a habit repeated a thousand times before.
"You stayed up all night." It wasn't a question; it was a firm assertion.
Leaning your head against his sturdy shoulder, you blinked, trying to play innocent as you looked into his ruby-red eyes, replying in a hazy voice laced with a raspy dryness from keeping your mouth shut for too long:
"I just woke up."
"You've even let yourself get sick. Your eyes don't know how to lie." He frowned and grumbled, his free right hand reaching over to cup your cheek, which was flushed red from the cold. The hand that was usually hidden inside a leather glove turned out to be so incredibly warm—warm enough to make your nose sting with unshed tears.
You gazed infatuatedly into those blood-red eyes that were filled with worry meant solely for you. Those eyes had once been cold and ruthless to the entire world, but now, in front of you, they wavered with deeply human emotions. You snuggled deeper into his chest, reaching up to smooth out the crease between his knitted brows. The skin beneath your fingers wasn't as burning hot as his palm, but bore a slight, dull chill characteristic of someone who worked in the shadows.
"Has everyone... finished the research?" You skillfully avoided the topic of your health, shifting to another matter. About Zandik. About the original body.
"Not entirely. But the urgent part is done, so I came back to be with you for a bit. As expected of the original, his body holds immense potential for a breakthrough. If successful, we will truly save a considerable amount of time. It's a pity 45 claimed the brain first; that guy is indeed quick-handed."
Dottore carefully lifted your chin, tilting it left and right to inspect the face he had been away from for an entire week. He allowed your fingers to play across his forehead, calmly recounting the dissection of his own original body as if speaking about a mundane weather project.
"You should get some rest." You caught his hand, playfully tracing his slender fingers, which bore slight calluses from handling lab instruments, and whispered.
"...You are strange today. Did something happen? Or did the servants try to cross the line while I was away for a week?" He brought his face close to yours, trying to find a clue for his lover's peculiar behavior. Was it that time of the month, causing her mood to be unstable? No, you had just passed that period not too long ago.
"Mm..."
You lowered your eyes in silence, the fingers tracing his face slowing down. You bit your lip slightly, looking entirely timid as you leaned your weight completely into his chest. Your hand, which had been stroking his brow, moved to play with a blue lock of hair falling over his forehead.
Suddenly, Dottore's large hand caught your restless one, enveloping it entirely within his palm.
"Speak." His calloused fingers lightly caressed the back of your hand. He began to employ the commanding tone of a superior Harbinger.
Even though you loved everything about him, your rebellious streak had been nurtured by this very man, growing from a tiny seed into a sturdy, towering tree. And right now was the perfect moment for it to act. You pouted slightly, leaning forward to bite his neck gently, succeeding in startling him into loosening his grip, allowing you to pull your hand back safely.
"Hmph. It's just that I... well. Even though I started with you, and obviously you are the most important to me, that other segment is also you. I don't know how to face this dissection business. And after this, I don't know how I'm supposed to face the other segments either..." Your voice trailed off, turning soft. "I've hidden this question beneath a pink silk shroud for so long. Now, I'm afraid it will kill me, Dottore."
The scent of antiseptic and the distinct aroma of chemicals from prolonged lab experiments had long melded with Dottore's breath, and now it enveloped your entire body. The very scent that would normally terrify and drive ordinary people away became, at this moment, the gentlest sedative to soothe your trembling heart.
The arm around your shoulder tightened, pulling your slightly shivering body flush against his warm chest, as if he wanted to use his own body heat to dispel Snezhnaya's wretched dampness that was besieging you.
"Are you jealous of me, or are you mourning a man who is me, yet isn't me?"
His question cut through the air, breaking the long-standing silence. He tilted his head, his deep, warm voice carrying that familiar, mesmerizing magnetic pull.
You looked up at him, your lips pursed as if you still couldn't find the right answer. Dottore saw right through the turmoil in your ruby eyes. Releasing his hold on you, he turned to pick up the cold cinnamon tea on the table. A surge of warm elemental energy fluctuated from his palm, and within seconds, hot steam began to swirl upward again, carrying the sweet, sharp spice of cinnamon to warm their small space.
He pressed the teacup back into your hands, forcing you to cup it with both palms, before he finally spoke in a measured tone:
"Don't use the logic of ordinary people to define my existence, Yyn. It is true that I am one of us, but each of us possesses 'a certain degree of autonomy'. For instance, they can feel my affection for you; they know how vital a girl named Yyn is to this me..."
Dottore leaned down slightly, his slender fingers gently stroking your cheek, which was regaining some color, his gaze locking onto your face as if to carve it into his mind:
"...But I have blocked their access to our private memories. They will never see the image of you resting in my arms right now, nor will they ever know what it feels like when you bite my neck or act spoiled. He - the original - or any other segment, has absolutely no right of ownership over those things."
He grabbed a thick wool blanket draped over the back of the chair, carefully wrapping it around you, bundling you up like a warm little cocoon.
"The one who possesses your love, and the one spending his rare patience to soothe you right now, is only one. Your pink silk shroud won't be able to steal you away from me; he died because we chose to be indifferent, not because we were powerless, have you forgotten?" He tapped your forehead gently, his tone bearing his usual touch of arrogance, yet entirely reassuring. "Now, drink all of this tea, and close your eyes to sleep for me. You have stayed awake long enough to overthink useless things, darling."
You pressed your face against his chest, inhaling the scent of chemicals blended with the warm aroma of cinnamon tea. The invisible dread that had weighed heavily on your chest all night was, in an instant, completely shattered by his coldly analytical yet boundlessly indulgent words.
